Weeping May Tarry
by ElouiseBates
Summary: Meggie Blythe is fourteen years old and facing the challenges of growing up amidst WWII. COMPLETE
1. A New Day

_**Author's Note: **I was finding myself increasingly displeased with the direction the first version of this story was taking, so I did some major revising, which resulted in deleting the first version of the story and re-posting. The first chapter is the same, and you might recognize parts of others, but quite a lot is different. My apologies to the fans of version #1, and I hope you enjoy version #2 as well!_

* * *

Meggie Blythe hesitated before the plain wooden door. She was normally not given to shyness, but knowing she was about to meet the three girls with whom she would live for the next year made her bite her lip nervously. What if she didn't like them? Meggie liked most people—but then, everything was so different now, here at music school in Toronto. She wasn't even sure if she was the same girl she had been at Green Gables.

Even worse than the possibility of not liking her roommates was the thought that they might not like her. Again, most people who knew Meggie not only liked but loved her—but that was back on Prince Edward Island. Who knew what these girls might be like? They might be those "modern" girls Grandmamma Irving was always deploring—interested in nothing but makeup and boys and gossip. Meggie, with her wholesome Island upbringing and apple-blossom fancies of girlhood, would fit in with that sort of mentality about as well as a simple wren in a Sultan's aviary. There was nothing of the gorgeous peacock about Meggie!

The slender girl sternly told herself not to be a coward and raised her hand to the doorknob. Just as her fingers brushed it, the door flew open inward, revealing a small girl with delicate features and laughing blue eyes.

"Oh!" she exclaimed delightedly. "Someone _is_ here! I thought I heard someone, but Merrill said it was my imagination, and then when nobody came in I thought she was right, but I had been so sure and the suspense was _killing_ me so I finally just had to open the door and see. And here you are!"

Meggie blinked before this onslaught, all delivered in a slightly breathy, high sweet voice.

"I'm Rose," the girl continued. "Rose Greye, according to the registrar's office, but Wild Rose everywhere else. Are you Joanna Blythe?"

Meggie decided there wasn't much need to fear this girl. She curved her lips in her frank, open smile. "Yes, but nobody calls me by my full name. It's Joanna Margaret, and I'm just Meggie."

"Oh good! I didn't think you looked much like a Joanna. Meggie suits you so much better. Come in! Your trunk is already here." She pulled Meggie into the room, chattering all the while. "I claimed the bed by the window—I'm _so_ selfish; it's one of my worst traits." She looked mournful.

"I don't mind," Meggie said honestly, peering out the window at the high brick wall facing them. "It's not much of a view."

Rose positively beamed. "Thank you! It doesn't take away my selfishness, but it's kind of you to try to make me feel better about it." She grabbed a hand of the other girl in the room: a tall, slender young woman with hair like polished wood and wide brown eyes set in an ivory-smooth face. "This is Merrill Preston. Merrill, this is Meggie Blythe. There, now we're all acquainted!"

Meggie couldn't help bursting into a hearty laugh. "How can you say that? We don't know anything about each other!"

Rose rolled her eyes expressively. "What do you mean? I've already told you about myself. I'm a wild, selfish girl who talks too much—oh yes, I do, don't try to be polite and deny it. And I can tell all about you two just by looking. Merrill is sweet and shy and _good_, and you're healthy and imaginative and loving and also good." She sighed dramatically. "Oh me, I hope Miss Samantha Kerr isn't as good as you two, or I will be the only bad girl in our room."

Meggie impulsively squeezed her hand. "I don't think you're bad at all. I think you're delightful."

Instead of looking pleased, Rose just appeared more doleful. "Oh dear, now you're going to be disappointed in me. I am dreadful, really I am. I break rules without even thinking about it, I stay up too late and sleep in too much in the morning, I 'sass' all the teachers just because I can …" she sighed. "Dear me, I'm getting quite depressed thinking about all my faults. Do tell me something about yourselves, girls, so I don't have to dwell on my follies."

Merrill seemed content to prove Rose's analysis of her shyness by saying nothing, so Meggie obliged by speaking up. She sat down on the unoccupied corner bed and removed her hat and gloves, smoothing the latter out and placing them neatly atop her locked trunk.

"I'm from a little town called Avonlea in Prince Edward Island. I live on a farm called Green Gables with my father and twin brother."

"A twin! Well, I call that luck," Rose sighed enviously. "I've always wanted a brother or sister, but my parents decided I was a handful enough on my own." She wrinkled up her nose drolly. "Did I mention that I also have a bad habit of interrupting? Do go on, dear."

"Matty—my twin—is going to Upper Canada College."

Rose hadn't been joking about her habit of interrupting. "So he's here, too? How lucky!" She covered her mouth with both hands. "Oops."

Meggie's brown eyes sparkled with fun. "I have an enormous extended family, with cousins, aunts, and uncles all over Canada and beyond, and I'm here to receive voice training." For what, she still wasn't sure, but Grandmamma had insisted, and Shirley—Meggie's Papa—had agreed to one year. One year, and then Meggie could go home to Green Gables.

"I'm here for voice as well," Rose informed her. "Merrill is studying piano."

"Where are you from, Merrill?" Meggie asked the quiet girl.

"Alberta," she answered. "My family has a farm there."

Somehow, this slim, polished specimen of lovely girlhood didn't seem like a farmer to Meggie. She couldn't imagine those long white fingers pulling weeds or washing dishes; nor could she envision that low, husky voice calling the cows homes at twilight. Still, appearances could be deceiving.

"How many of you are there?"

"Nine," Merrill answered. "I'm the youngest. My older four siblings are already married and have families of their own." She hesitated, then added, "I never quite fit in around the farm. With so many others to do the chores, I wasn't needed. My music teacher told my parents that my piano talent shouldn't be neglected, so they sent me here." She blushed, a lovely rose color warming the ivory pallor of her face. "Not that I think I'm talented," she hastened to assure them. "That's just what my teacher said."

Rose leaned forward and patted her hand. "I'm sure you are very talented, dear."

The door burst open, revealing a short, plump girl with bright blue eyes, cherry red lipstick, and blond hair a few shades lighter than Rose's fair curls. Her emerald green skirt and crisp white blouse showed unmistakable signs of professional dressmaking, and Meggie, who had never before worried in the slightest about clothes, suddenly felt that here was the roommate to trouble her.

"Samantha Kerr, I presume?" Rose asked calmly.

"In the flesh," the blond replied in a sleek, cultured voice. "And you girls must be …" she checked the slip of paper in her exquisitely gloved hand.

"Rose Greye, Meggie Blythe, and Merrill Preston," Rose jumped in, indicating each girl as she spoke their names. She smiled. "Now we're a quartet."

The girls spent the next hour unpacking and getting acquainted. Rose did most of the talking, though she did manage to draw information out of the other three almost as effortlessly as she offered it herself. Meggie learned that Rose was from an old Boston family (she actually knew Grandmamma and Grandfather Irving!), but had insisted on coming to Toronto for school rather than stay in Boston.

"I've lived in Boston my entire life," she announced. "I wanted to see something of the world before I get married."

"Are you going to be married so soon?" Samantha asked amusedly.

"When I'm eighteen," Rose answered placidly. "It's been arranged since before I was born. Our grandparents are grand friends, and have always wanted some of their descendents to make a match of it. So when Geoff and I were born only a year apart, they determined that we would get married just as soon as we were old enough."

"And you don't mind?" Meggie asked in wonder.

"Of course not! Geoffy is a dear boy. His family is the oldest in High Valley—that's in Colorado," she hastened to explain. "They're cattle ranchers. On his grandfather's side they came from England, so they're both well-established and wealthy. I adore the High Valley—back in Grandmamma's day there was only a few families living there, but now it has shops and a church and a doctor and everything, and it's breathtakingly beautiful. You all will have to come for our wedding and stay with us afterward."

"Do you have a picture?" Samantha asked eagerly.

"Of the High Valley?"

"No, of your fiancé!"

Rose dove into her bag and came up with a small snapshot. Samantha eagerly took it in her hand. "Say, he's cute," she said approvingly.

Rose studied it afresh. "I suppose he is," she conceded. Samantha turned to the other two.

"Do either of you have a boyfriend?"

"No," Merrill said quietly.

"I'm only fourteen!" Meggie said, appalled. "How can I even think of a boyfriend?"

Samantha giggled. "Honey, I'm only fifteen, and I've had half a dozen boyfriends already. I suppose, stuck on a farm on Prince Edward Island, you don't have much pick of boys."

Samantha was native to Toronto, and quite proud of it. She was attending the Conservatory for violin.

"My parents want me to become a concert violinist," she explained casually. "But I don't care about that. I just want to have a good time while I'm here." She stretched out on her chosen bed and rifled her fingers through her platinum waves. "There are some dashingly handsome boys here. As I was signing in I saw one—he was tall and dark, with piercing blue eyes and a dreamy face …" she sighed happily. "I hope he's a violinist."

Meggie turned away in disgust. Her cousin Polly had been silly about boys a few years ago, and Meggie had had her fill of such nonsense then. She'd hoped she would never have to deal with that kind of silliness in such close quarters again.

Samantha looked over as Meggie arranged her snapshots atop her nightstand. "Darling, if you don't have a boyfriend, who are those handsome men?"

Meggie pointed to the largest. "That's my brother Matty." The black and white photo didn't reflect his grave brown eyes and tanned skin, but it did show his sweet smile and good-natured attitude.

She went on to the rest. "That's my cousin Peter." The tall, golden-haired Peter looked very serious in his RAF uniform. "And that's his brother Bran." Bran too wore the uniform of England's Royal Air Force. Much to Auntie Di's dismay, he had joined up only a month ago, the most mischievous, troublesome recruit ever to plague a commanding officer.

"This is Uncle Bruce, Aunt Betsy, and their son Gabe," she continued. "And this is Green Gables and Papa," softly.

Samantha pointed to the final photo on the table. "And who's that?"

Meggie's brow clouded. "Johnny Meredith, another cousin."

"He's delicious," Samantha gushed. "Where does he live?"

Meggie wished she knew. Johnny had run away from home months ago, and nobody had heard anything of him since. "My aunt and uncle live in Ottawa," she answered obliquely, not wanting to discuss private family matters with this sophisticated, worldly girl.

"You do have a large family," Rose said.

Meggie laughed, pushing her worry for Johnny to the back of her mind. "That isn't even half of them.

"Well," Samantha said, her eyes sparkling. "You just let me know if any of them ever visit you. I'd be more than happy to help entertain them—at least, any of the boys." She winked.

Meggie smiled politely. "Thank you."

A bell in the hallway rang. "That's dinner," Rose said. "Come on, quartet, let's find our way to the dining hall. I'm starving. Trying to make a good impression on strangers always works up an appetite."

She slipped her arm through Merrill's and led the way out the door. Meggie trailed behind the rest, thinking that this next year was going to be interesting, to say the least. Despite missing Matty and Polly and _home_, with Rose around, she wouldn't have a chance to be bored!


	2. War!

Those first few weeks of school always seemed a golden- and rose-colored blur to Meggie when she looked back on them in later years. She had come to school expecting to hate it—instead, with a few minor exceptions, she was surprised to find it delightful.

Much of that delight was due to Rose. She looked at life as one huge diversion arranged especially for her amusement. She laughed at everything, even the things others found dull or dreary, and she infected her friends with that same zest.

Merrill, too, was a darling. She was terribly, painfully shy, but Rose made it her goal to make the western girl laugh at least once a day. Underneath her timid exterior, Merrill was extremely driven. She wanted to be the best at everything she did. She wasn't noticeably competitive, though; the only person she really competed against was herself.

Samantha … well, Samantha was one of the exceptions to Meggie's enjoyment of school. Meggie never managed to overcome her initial dislike of the sophisticated city girl, whose only interests appeared to be boys and fashion. Her chatter and mannerisms grated on Meggie a hundred times a day, and it took all of Merrill's calmness and Rose's vivaciousness to balance her out.

The classes were another revelation. Taught at home or by her Auntie Di for much of grammar school, Meggie was surprised to discover that she rather enjoyed the challenge of regular classes. Her favorite class (aside from voice, which was _so_ wonderful), was mathematics. Not that Meggie enjoyed mathematics particularly well, but she had discovered a special connection to her professor the first week of classes, one that thrilled her down to her toes.

"Blythe, Joanna," Professor Ashton ha read from the roll.

Meggie raised her hand, and the distinguished teacher hesitated.

"Miss Blythe, were you by any chance related to a Walter Blythe?"

One of Meggie's cousins was Walter, but she guessed from Prof. Ashton's use of the past tense that he meant Walt's namesake.

"My Uncle Walter was killed in the war," she answered.

The professor nodded. "I knew your uncle, Miss Blythe. He was a remarkable man."

That was all he said—then—but Meggie was quite tickled to meet someone who had known Uncle Walter. He was the family legend: not talked of much, but held up and venerated almost as a saint. Uncle Jem said he had been a genius, and the goal of Walt's (young Walt, Meggie's cousin) life was to be as great a poet someday.

Prof. Ashton had a way of making even algebra and geometry _almost_ interesting. He was also by far the handsomest teacher in the school, and Samantha was not alone in her declared adoration for him.

Ms. Trent taught voice, Meggie's other favorite class. She was a small, nondescript woman, but she explained music in such a way that made it come alive. Meggie improved so much in the first few weeks that she positively blushed to think of how rough her voice had been before.

Ms. Trent was a passionate _devotee_ of Italian operas, and was constantly challenging her pupils to learn the language and songs. Meggie dutifully tried, but when she was done with her prescribed practice time, she would spend an extra half hour singing the old beloved folk songs she had learned from Uncle Patrick back in Avonlea.

The most difficult thing about school was her separation from Matty. The twins spent their weekends at Aunt Rilla and Uncle Ken's, but two and a half days was never quite enough time.

He was doing well at his school, although he didn't like it anywhere near as much as Meggie liked the Conservatory. His old leg injury, though not hindering him at all in everyday use, prevented him from getting involved in most sports. At Upper Canada College, if you didn't play sports, you were a nobody.

That didn't bother Matty, as he had never cared about being popular. Meggie felt some indignation on his behalf, but he just shrugged philosophically and reminded her that after this year he'd never see any of these boys again, and who cared what they thought?

Meggie wished she could be that indifferent toward people's opinions. She wanted everyone to like her, whether she was going to know them for years, or just a few days.

* * *

_Dear Peter,_

_Here I am at the Conservatory! Can you imagine, me training to become a concert performer? I still think it's a waste of Grandmamma's money and my time, but as Matty keeps reminding me, it's only for one year._

_I like two of my roommates very much. Rose Greye, known as "Wild Rose," is unlike anyone I've ever known. She's so fun and lovable, and even the teachers let her get away with breaking all kinds of rules. With anyone else, they would reprimand them severely, but Rose just gets an indulgent smile and a "Really, Miss Greye."_

_Merrill Preston is sweet and shy. She's worried about the threat of war—two of her older brothers are old enough to join the army, and she's afraid for them. I tried to reassure her, but I'm afraid I wasn't very good at it. I worry about you and Bran too much to be much comfort to anyone else in the same position._

_Samantha Kerr is the third roommate. She is not of the race that knows Joseph, and that's all there is to say about her!_

_It's been interesting spending the weekends at Aunt Rilla's. Gil goes to UCC with Matty, and he's dreadfully superior and condescending. Anna just ignores him, but Ally teases him constantly, and then they get into the most terrible fights. Aunt Rilla just rolls her eyes._

_She's worried about the war, too. Uncle Ken says it is because she suffered so much during the last war, and she can't bear to think that all their sacrifices and pain were for nothing. He says he eats, sleeps, and breathes war because of the newspaper, but Aunt Rilla forbids anyone to even mention it around the house. Even Gil obeys her—Aunt Rilla can really be quite forbidding when she's stern._

_I miss you. Write soon, when you get the chance._

_Love always,_

_Meggie._

Meggie put the pen down with a sigh. Next to Matty, Peter was her dearest friend. Even his time in England hadn't strained their relationship. Letters flew back and forth between them with regularity, and she always relied on him for good advice to help her see her life more clearly. She was so afraid something would happen to him if England did go to war against Germany, but at the same time, she was so proud of him for joining up. He hadn't wanted to—all he wanted to do was continue his studies at Cambridge—but he had felt it his duty, and so he had put his dreams aside to serve his land.

And then Bran had gone over—supposedly to visit Peter—and had joined as well without telling anyone. Auntie Di had been furious ("I knew I shouldn't have let the boys keep their citizenship!"), but Bran just said that if Peter could do it, so could he. No arguments or tearful pleas had the slightest effect on him.

"He always was stubborn," Uncle Patrick had said.

Rose bounced into the room, scattering Meggie's increasingly gloomy thoughts with her bright smile.

"My dear, please tell me you aren't studying," she said dramatically. "It's too unnatural to see a girl studying on Sunday afternoon."

Meggie laughed. "No, I'm not. Since we had to come home early from Aunt Rilla's, I decided to write to my cousin in England. This way I still feel somewhat connected to family."

Rose picked up Peter's picture. "He looks so serious," she said. "And old! How old is he?"

"Twenty-two," Meggie said. "Eight years older than I."

"Yet you're still good friends?"

Meggie smiled. "The best."

Rose set the photograph back down. "You've an awfully nice family. I think it's a real shame that your little cousin got sick so you had to come back early."

Meggie tried unsuccessfully to hide a sigh. It had been hard leaving Matty directly after church, instead of late that night, but she supposed Teddy couldn't help getting sick.

"That's all right," she said, trying to speak cheerfully. "I'll see them again next weekend."

"In the meantime," Rose was beginning, when Merrill came through the open door, her ivory face even whiter than usual. Rose leapt up in a heartbeat and put her arms around the taller girl.

"My dear, whatever is the matter?" she cried.

"England—and France—have declared war—on Germany," Merrill said jerkily. "Canada is—expected—to follow suit."

Rose gasped, and Meggie blanched. She put one slim brown hand to her forehead. "War?" she whispered. "It's really come, then?"

Merrill nodded woodenly.

Meggie stood up and walked out of the room, hardly knowing what she was doing. She passed knots of students, gathered together in the halls, whispering. Some of the older boys were laughing boisterously, hoping the war would last long enough for them to join the army. Meggie felt she might be sick.

Her steps quickened until she was almost running. She made it past the students and teachers into one of the small practice rooms, where she collapsed into a huddle and wrapped her arms around her knees.

She wanted Matty—Papa—Peter—anyone. She wanted to be home, where Papa could put his arms around her and tell her everything was going to be all right. She wanted to hear her twin's practical reassurances, to see Peter and make him promise to be safe. She wanted … she wanted …

She bit her lip so hard it almost bled. What she wanted didn't matter. She could not be selfish now. She needed to be strong and brave. She couldn't go home, and wishing to do so would only make things worse.

As for Peter—Meggie knew there was only one thing she could do for him now.

"Oh God," she whispered. "Keep him safe. Peter, and Bran, and all the other soldiers over there. Keep them all safe."

* * *

_Dear Peter,_

_I know I just wrote—you'll get this letter only a few days after my first—but I had to send it. Oh Peter, you were right about the war. I wish you hadn't been—but you were. Peter, I'm trying to be brave for you and Bran. It's not easy, but I'm trying. I'm praying for you, all the time._

_I thought coming to the Conservatory was going to be the biggest change that ever happened to me. Now I think nothing is ever going to be the same. The world's changing around us, isn't it?_

_I am proud of you—and scared for you—and I love you. Be safe (or as safe as you can be). Know that no matter what happens, I'll always be your little,_

_Meggie._

* * *

_Dear Meggie,_

_Thank you for your letter, little chum. Knowing that you're home praying and supporting me is the biggest encouragement I could ever have. Things are pretty grim right now, and the false cheerfulness I get from Mum and Polly just makes it worse._

_I'm a lieutenant now, Meggie. Doesn't that sound old? Flight Lieutenant Peter Richard Campion Samuels. Takes up half the page just to write my name. With all the new recruits flooding in, those of us who have been here for a year or more are being promoted. I'd already worked my way up to Flying Officer, so now I'm a lieutenant. It'd be nice if I was receiving my promotion for merit, but I'll take the extra pay and privileges under any circumstance._

_I had a note from Freddie the other day. He's finally made up his mind to join the Navy. Leah is worried sick about it, but I get the feeling Jack approves. You know how lazy and careless Freddie was. Even though Jack's worried about him, I think he's also glad he's doing something for his country, instead of just looking out for himself. He said he's going to try to keep his rank a secret—if his fellow Seamen find out he's an Earl, he'll be in for it. They don't have much opinion of the aristocracy in the lower ranks of any branch of the service. Of course, he could buy a commission, like many of his fellow noblemen, but he said that if he's going to do this, he's going to start from the bottom and work his way up like any Englishman._

_I think Jocelyn must be at least partially responsible for his decision. We don't write, of course—that wouldn't be appropriate, with her being promised to Freddie and all—but from what Freddie said, it sounds as though she encouraged him. He even said something about her offering to marry him before he shipped out, but he didn't want to. I still don't think he takes their marriage seriously. It's something that's been arranged for them since they were little—he accepts it, but doesn't really care._

_Sometimes I want to shake him. Can't he see what a marvelous girl Jocelyn is? She deserves someone who really loves her and values her._

_Enough about me, about Freddie, and about the war. What do you think of the Conservatory? Do you have a good history teacher? Do you think you might stay longer than the promised one year? A word of advice, fawn. Don't throw away the opportunity to learn. There might come a day when you wish you had a more complete education, and your chance at one has passed. Look at me—I came over here to work my way through Cambridge, and now I'm embroiled in this war and I don't know if I'll ever have a chance to finish my education. I'd give anything to be fourteen again and just starting out._

_No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't trade the life lessons I've experienced in the last eight years for anything—even Cambridge._

_So make up your own mind, chum. School or Avonlea or something else entirely—it's your life to live. Grand advice I'm giving, isn't it? In all seriousness—don't let other people decide for you what you are going to do. But don't just choose the easy path, either. Do what you really think is best._

_Last Post—that means lights out. Good night, chum. Write soon—and often. Your letters keep me going._

_Love always,_

_Peter._

_P.S. One of my bunkmates just asked who it was I was writing to for such a long time—was it my girl back home? I just smiled and said, yes, my girl. My best girl, always._


	3. An Expedition and a Revelation

"Meggie dear," Samantha drawled. The two of them were alone in the room. Meggie was smiling over a letter from Lily, at Queen's, and looked up in some annoyance.

"Yes?" she said coolly.

"Do either of your cousins have girlfriends?"

"Most of my cousins have many girl friends," Meggie said stiffly, deliberately misunderstanding.

Samantha's light laugh rang out a trifle shrilly. "No, no, darling. Your RAF cousins. You know … are they spoken for?"

Meggie looked at their pictures. It was assumed in the family that Bran was someday going to ask Jane Stuart to marry him, but as of yet, nothing was official between the two. "No," she said reluctantly.

"Splendid," Samantha purred. "You see, some of we girls are talking about writing to the soldiers … just little notes and things to cheer them up … and I thought, since you and I are friends, I'd volunteer to write to your cousins. Only, of course, not if they're taken. Then they'd just be boring." She winked.

All at once, Meggie's dislike of this girl with her sleek city ways and shallow outlook on life came crashing to a head. How dare she try to use Meggie to flirt with Peter and Bran? How dare she take something as serious as a war as a chance to meet men?

In her anger, and the fear she tried to keep hidden over the boys, Meggie spoke more sharply than she ever would have dreamed possible.

"The _family_ writes to Peter and Bran," she said. "And you and I are _not_ friends."

With that, she pushed past Samantha and fled the room. With one part of her mind she was horrified at being so rude, with another pleased to have finally told the other girl how she _really_ felt.

"She deserved it," the young girl told herself insistently. "How could she suggest such a thing!"

Her steps slowed involuntarily. What would Papa say if he could see her right now? She could try to justify her poor behavior all she wanted, but she knew he would never find an excuse for rudeness. Why, even when Miss Craig, the Avonlea schoolteacher who had been so horrid to Polly, practically accused Meggie, Polly, and Johnny of lying, Papa had been polite to her. He was firm, and spoke his mind in a way that left no room for doubt, but he wasn't rude.

"She wouldn't have understood me if I'd been polite," Meggie argued stubbornly. "Sometimes you _have_ to be rude to make your point."

The words rang false even in her own ears. One never _had_ to be rude. No matter how angry she was, how much she disliked Samantha, no matter how frustrated and worried she was over the boys, she should not have spoken the way she did. She had not acted in a manner becoming a Blythe or Irving—or, she had to admit, even a decent human being.

The smallest practice room in the school was rapidly becoming Meggie's retreat. None of the other students liked to use it because it was so small and poorly lit, but Meggie found it just right when she needed be alone to think.

"Samantha is a horrid girl," she said frankly, once she was safely ensconced with the practice room's walls. "She thinks of nothing but flirtations and fun. But that still is no excuse to speak in such a way to her."

Meggie thought of Reverend Bruce Meredith, the Presbyterian minister of Glen St. Mary and her youngest uncle. He always called her by her first name—the only one to do so—and spoke to her as he would an adult.

She thought of Peter's last letter, where he had shown such confidence in her character and trust in her judgment.

She thought of Matty, enduring all the taunts and jeers of his schoolmates for his lack of athleticism, with calmness and patience. He never snapped at anyone, no matter how rude.

Meggie sighed. "What have I become?" she mourned. "How is school changing me, for me to behave so badly?"

She knew she couldn't blame it on school, though. If her character was only based on where she was and with whom she spent time—why, it couldn't really be called character, could it? If she really was going to be the strong, kind girl her family thought her, she couldn't let her circumstances affect her behavior.

By now, she was thoroughly ashamed of herself. She left the practice room, determined to go back and apologize to Samantha—while still making it quite clear that Peter and Bran were _not_ available for flirting.

"Meggie!"

Rose was hurrying toward her. "Where's Samantha?"

"Back in the room," Meggie said. "At least, that's where she was a little while ago."

Rose frowned. "She's not there now, that's where I just came from. Oh well, we can't wait for her." She grabbed Meggie's arm. "I need your help."

"With what?"

"With Merrill. She just heard that two of her older brothers are enlisting, and she's devastated. I've tried comforting her, but right now she needs distraction and cheering up. So I need you to help me take her out for some fun."

"What kind of fun?" Meggie asked suspiciously. One of Rose's recent escapades had nearly landed all of them in the Dean's office, and only her charm had saved them.

Rose pouted. "Don't you trust me?"

Meggie squeezed her arm affectionately. "Not a bit."

In one of her mercurial mood changes, Rose twinkled merrily. "I knew you were a wise girl. Don't worry, although part of me thinks that getting into trouble would be the perfect tonic for Merrill, I've toned down my love for drama for your sakes. We'll just go out, have some ice cream, buy some hats, and go to the cinema to see the latest Sherlock Holmes."

"Why hats?"

"Because that's what we do when we're down. Didn't you know? Men buy drinks. Women get ice-cream sodas and buy hats. I don't make the rules, love, I just follow them."

Laughing helplessly, Meggie allowed herself to be pulled along. She soothed her uneasy conscience by telling it that she cold always apologize to Samantha later. Right now, her friend needed her.

They swooped up Merrill and one of Rose's other friends, Connie Johnson, a poorer student whom they found studying in the darkest corner of the library.

Rose insisted they buy hats first. "Ladies!" she said severely. "We cannot be seen in public until we are properly hat-ted. To the millinery shop!"

Once in the shop, she took charge effortlessly, glaring sternly at the frowning saleswoman who swooped down on them, obviously assuming that four chattering schoolgirls could not possibly be paying customers.

"Good morning," Rose drawled in her haughtiest Boston accent. "Would you be so kind as to inform Madam that Rosamond Fletcher Walasham-Mercer Greye is here with companions?"

The saleswoman, visibly impressed by Rose's accent and ridiculous names, bowed herself out, promising to return with Madam.

"Oh Rose!" Merrill whispered agonizingly, trying not to giggle. "What names! How could you make up such things?"

Rose turned the Boston society lady on her. "Reallly," she intoned lengthily. "I don't know what you mean. What's the matter with my name?"

Before Merrill could reply, or the other two do more than control their faces, Madam bustled out to meet them.

"Good morning, Miss … er …"

"Rosamond Fletcher Walasham-Mercer Greye," Rose repeated loudly. "Walasham-Mercer being hyphenated. Have you any hats worth my perusal in this place?"

"Oh yes," Madam said, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. "Right this way."

The three girls stood helplessly by while Rose tried on hat after hat, tossing all of them carelessly into an untidy pile. She even made the girls try some on too. They all agreed that the wine-colored one looked divine on Merrill, though the cut was wrong for her rounded face, Meggie looked like an angel in the style of the gold one, had they only had it in a different shade, and that amber one brought out the exact shade of Connie's eyes … but Rose didn't like the contrast it made against her red-brown curls.

Finally, Rose stood up from in front of the mirror, sighing heavily. "Toronto millinery shops have nothing to Boston," she said sadly. "I see nothing here worth wasting my money on."

"Oh, but we must have something!" cried Madam, distraught at the thought of losing all that money.

Rose pursed her lips. "Well …" she said thoughtfully. She moved rapidly out from Madam's eagerly guiding hand to the discount part of the shop and picked out four berets from the ten-cent bin—all different colors, and Meggie realized that she must have been planning this since they walked in, for her to so unerringly pick them out. Rose handed them to Madam. "We'll take these," she said audaciously.

Madam's lips tightened ominously, but a sale is a sale, and so she took them to the front and dropped them down on the counter with a frozen look. "Next time," she hissed at Rose as that girl paid for her purchase and turned to leave with a limpid smile, "go to the Five and Dime."

The girls tumbled out into the street. Merrill was trembling, but Connie and Meggie were both in fits of giggles, and Rose herself was laughing helplessly.

"Come on, ladies!" she cried. "Let us wear our ravishing designer headwear!"

The navy beret perched atop her own head, the jaunty red one was unanimously voted Merrill's, Connie chose the brown one, and Meggie happily accepted the grey.

"Now," Rose said, checking her wristwatch, "Madam took longer than I anticipated, so I think we'll have to forego the cinema and simply have our ice-cream sodas."

"Nothing naughty here, please," Merrill begged.

Rose turned on her with a very serious face. "Merrill," she said in a shocked tone. "I never play any tricks when it comes to ice-cream sodas."

They entered the drugstore and lined up at the counter. "My treat," Rose insisted. "Any flavor you like, ladies."

Connie ordered strawberry, and Rose chocolate. Meggie picked maple, her favorite. Merrill just wanted vanilla, but Rose insisted she try something more daring than that and ordered her a coffee one instead.

"But Rose," Merrill protested. "I don't drink coffee."

"This isn't real coffee, you goose," Rose said affectionately. "Just coffee-flavored ice cream. You can feel wickedly worldly for drinking coffee, with none of the bad side effects. Drink up."

While they were drinking and chatting merrily, Professor Ashton walked in and sat down on the stool next to Meggie.

"Vanilla ice-cream soda, Mike," he told the soda jerk.

"Why, Professor!" Rose exclaimed. "Whatever are you doing here?"

He winked at the four girls. "Did you think I was too old and stuffy to enjoy a youthful treat like an ice-cream soda?"

"Well, yes!" Rose answered frankly.

"Rose!" Connie scolded.

Professor Ashton laughed. "That's all right, Miss Johnson. Well ladies, you have discovered my secret, my one vice. Promise not to tell?"

"Will it get us out of the math quiz tomorrow?" Rose asked hopefully.

He shook his head. "Not even to save my masculine reputation."

Rose sighed. "It was worth a try."

"Miss Blythe," the professor said after laughing with Rose. "Do you mind if I ask you some things about your uncle?"

"Of course not, but I don't think I'll be able to tell you much about him," Meggie said. "He died long before I was born, you know."

"I know." The professor absently twirled the straw in his frosted glass. "He saved my life, you know," he said abruptly. "I was wounded and left for dead, and he came back for me. He was safe in the trenches, and he came back to No-man's land to pull me out. I later heard he received the D.C. for it—he should have had the V.C."

"Oh!" Meggie gasped, her eyes luminous with delight. "I've heard about you! Not you personally, that is, but … the one story everyone tells about Uncle Walter during the war was when he won the D.C. Uncle Jem says it was the bravest thing anyone could have done."

"I would like … I've always wanted to thank his family," Professor Ashton said. "I never got a chance to thank him. I was unconscious when he pulled me out, and by the time I got out of the hospital, he was in a different unit. The next thing I heard about him was that he'd been killed. I can't thank him, but if I could just thank those he left … are your grandparents still living?"

"Yes," Meggie said, tingling all over with the romance of it all. Fancy meeting the man Uncle Walter saved! After all these years, that she should come to the very school where he was teaching, and take the very class he was giving! It was one of those amazingly wonderful coincidences that do happen occasionally in this life. "They live in Glen St. Mary, on Prince Edward Island."

"Still at Ingleside? Walter used to talk about his home, you know. All of us who knew him knew about it. Ingleside, Rainbow Valley, the manse."

"Yes, they're still at Ingleside, with Uncle Jem and Aunt Faith. Uncle Bruce—Reverend Meredith's youngest son—is the Presbyterian minister now; he and Aunt Betsy and Aunt Una and Katy and Gabe live at the manse. Rainbow Valley is just the same as it always was—always will be, Grandmother says, for rainbows are immortal."

Professor Ashton smiled down into her eager face. "Aunt Betsy _and_ Aunt Una? Are Presbyterian ministers polygamous now?"

Meggie laughed at her mistake. "No, of course not. Aunt Una is Uncle Bruce's unmarried sister. Katy is her adopted daughter … but she seems to belong more to Uncle Bruce and Aunt Betsy," she concluded thoughtfully.

"Ah yes," Professor Ashton mused. "I remember now … Faith was the beautiful daughter of the manse, promised to Walter's brother Jem, while Una was the sweet one, quiet, shy, and tender. He always spoke of her with peculiar reverence … as if she was something too holy to profane with ordinary language. I thought she'd be long married by now."

"Aunt Una never married," Meggie said, caught up in his reminisces. "She worked as a missionary in India for many years, until Rev. Meredith's health failed and she came home to take care of him. Now she helps Uncle Bruce and Aunt Betsy."

Professor Ashton said nothing for a long while, his green eyes looking far into the distance. Meggie respected his memories and finished her maple soda in equal silence. As the girls finished their drinks and noisily got up to leave, he came out of his reverie with a start.

"Thank you, Miss Blythe. You may tell your grandparents to expect a visit from me during our next school break."

"I will," Meggie promised.

"And Miss Rose—I expect you to do well on the quiz tomorrow!"

Rose groaned dramatically.

Meggie couldn't get over the delightful surprise. For the first time, she was actually thankful that Grandmamma had insisted she come to school.

Why, if she had never come, she would never have met Professor Ashton, and they would never know what had become of the man Uncle Walter saved.

Maybe that was what Peter had meant, she mused, trailing after the others. You can't always know what life has waiting just around the bend … and if you spend your time hiding from life, always taking the safe and easy path, you'll never find out.

Philosophizing thus, Meggie paid no attention to where she was walking and bumped directly into a streetlamp.

"Meggie!" Rose called. "Are you asleep?"

Meggie laughed. "I think I must have been." She hurried after the girls, resolving to save her other deep thoughts for later—when she was in bed and safe from lamps!


	4. News From Johnny

"Elliot Douglas has joined up," Meggie sighed, finishing Lily's letter. "Vance is furious that he's too young … says he hopes the war lasts for at least another year so he can join as well. Mrs. Douglas boxed his ears for that."

Rose chuckled. "You know the most interesting people, Meggie."

Vance had also asked Lily once again to go on a date with him. He'd been asking her steadily ever since he was fifteen and she fourteen. Lily loathed him, but she couldn't bring herself to be rude to anyone, and so always phrased her refusals so gently that he always thought there was hope.

_Sometimes I think I should have Father forbid him to come near me,_ Lily wrote in exasperation. _But I know that would cause bad feelings between him and Mrs. Douglas, and she has such a tongue that she would spread it all over the country. As much as I can't bear Vance, it's even worse to think about our family being gossiped about by everyone._

"What other news do you have from home?" Connie asked. Meggie's family, so large and varied, and yet so close-knit, had become something of a fascination to her school friends. Anytime she got letters from her cousins, they would all gather 'round to hear the news. Papa, Green Gables, Tanglewood, Polly, Lily and the rest all seemed like fairy tales to these girls.

"Polly writes from Queen's," Meggie said, pulling another letter from the pile. "She's enjoying it there, although she says the work is hard. She's glad because it takes her mind off worrying about Peter and Bran. She went to a concert last week and wore her new cream silk dress—her first silk dress, and probably her last while the war is on—and someone spilled iced coffee all over it. She was furious at first, but her roommate suggested dying the dress all over, and so now she has a lovely new light brown silk dress."

"Now that's innovative," Rose commented. She was lying on her stomach atop her bed, chin propped in her hands.

Connie plucked a postcard from the bottom of the pile. "Who's this from?"

Meggie took it in her hand, frowning slightly. She hadn't noticed that before; it must have been hidden between the other letters. She turned it over and read the few lines on the back.

"Meggie?" Rose asked as the other girl's face paled. "What's wrong?"

With difficulty, Meggie swallowed the lump in her throat. "It's from Johnny," she said hoarsely.

Connie wrinkled her brow. "Who's Johnny?"

"My Auntie Nan's second son," Meggie said.

"The handsome one," Samantha added lightly. "You have his picture on your nightstand."

In actuality, Blythe was considered the handsome one of the Meredith family, but by now Meggie knew enough about Samantha to know that any man whose features were arranged in a relatively pleasing fashion qualified as "handsome" to her.

Meggie still hadn't had a chance to apologize to Samantha—or rather, hadn't made a chance. Every time she worked up enough courage, Samantha said or did something that irritated her all over again.

Samantha behaved the same way toward Meggie as she always had, though, so Meggie tried to ease her conscience by deciding the incident hadn't _really_ been that big of a deal.

"What's so wrong about getting a postcard from this Johnny?" Rose asked.

Meggie smoothed it out. Normally she didn't like to talk about family problems with outsiders, but she was so shaken that she needed to confide in someone. "Nobody's heard anything from Johnny since this past spring," she said softly. "He ran away from home."

"Ooh, how thrilling," Samantha gushed. "A rebel!"

"What does he say?" Merrill asked, deflecting Meggie's ire.

Meggie read the card aloud. "Dear Meggie, just wanted you to know I'm fine. I know you at least must be worried. Don't be, I'm doing just swell. Love, Johnny."

"Well, at least you know he's safe," Rose encouraged.

"What did he mean, 'you at least must be worried'?" quoted Connie, peeking over Meggie's shoulder. "Aren't you all worried?"

"Of course we are!" Meggie exclaimed. Johnny wouldn't believe that, though. One of the reasons he left was because he felt like nobody cared about him; to his mind his family only wanted him to be like Blythe. "He's just … confused," she finished. She stood up. "Excuse me girls, but I must go use the 'phone. I need to let my family know right away that I heard from Johnny."

"Of course," Rose said sympathetically.

* * *

"Papa?"

"Meggie! What's wrong?"

Meggie felt like crying at hearing his beloved voice again, so she laughed shakily instead. "Nothing. I'm sorry to scare you."

"I thought you were only supposed to 'phone for emergencies?"

"This is sort of an emergency—Papa, I just heard from Johnny."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then,

"Thank God," Shirley said. "When? How?"

"He sent me a postcard—I don't know where from, the postmark was blurred. But he says he's fine."

"Did he say anything else?"

"No, just that."

"I'll call Nan right away and tell her. Thank God! At least he's not hurt." Shirley paused again. "And how is my Meggie?"

Again Meggie felt a rush of tears at the gentle concern in his voice, but she held them back bravely. "I'm doing fine, Papa, really. I still miss home, but things are starting to settle in here."

"Good. I wish I could talk more, my heart."

"I know. I had to beg the dean just for five minutes."

"I'll see you at Christmas."

"It's only a couple more months," Shirley said, sounding as though he was reassuring himself as much as her.

Meggie knew she needed to get off soon or she would start crying in earnest. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, daughter dear. Tell your brother I love him when you see him."

"I will. Goodbye, Papa."

"Goodbye, Meggie-love."

Meggie replaced the receiver and burst into tears. Her homesickness had faded to a manageable level, thanks mostly to Rose and seeing Matty on the weekends, but talking to Papa made her realize afresh how much she missed home. With the emotions Johnny's postcard stirred up, topped by Papa's loving care, she felt as though a cork had pulled from a water bottle, letting all the tears she'd been holding inside gush forth in one steady stream.

She cried and cried, finally letting go of all the emotions that had been troubling her. Her fears, her worries, most of all how much she missed her family … they all poured out along with her tears.

The fit of sobbing finally passed, and she sniffed and wiped her face on her sleeve, wondering vaguely where her handkerchief had gone.

She felt drained of all energy, but surprisingly better than she had for weeks—finally felt like _Meggie_ again. Without hesitation, she waked right back to the room, where, providentially, Samantha was now alone.

"Did you get your important call made?" she asked carelessly.

"Yes," Meggie answered. She braced herself.

"Samantha," she began in a clear, steady voice. "I need to apologize to you for the things I said a few weeks ago. About my cousins, and about us not being friends, and all that. It was very rude of me, and I am truly sorry."

Samantha's bright, empty look never flickered throughout the apology. "Well, aren't you too cute?" she laughed. "Fancy you troubling yourself over a little thing like that. Why honey, I'd forgotten all about it! We all say things we don't mean."

Meggie flinched. Anger she could have faced, hurt she could have endured … but this uncaring façade was beyond her. "Then … you forgive me?"

"I just don't see that there's anything to forgive!" Samantha said. "Now run along, will you, darling? I'm trying to write a letter to one of my poor soldier boys, and I need to concentrate."

Meggie gladly left the room, thinking that try as she might, she would _never_ like Samantha.

* * *

_Dear Meggie,_

_People claim Canadian winters are bad, but I'd rather face the bitter cold and mountainous snow any day over what we have to endure here. It's just gray and drizzly, with a chill that seeps into your bones. I'd give anything to be sitting in the kitchen at Tanglewood, listening to Polly chatter about her beaus, sipping Mum's famous hot chocolate from Susan Baker's recipe and eating a batch of monkey-face cookies._

_Funny, I never minded the winters here before. It's just this war … it's not the danger so much that gets to me. I don't mind that. It's the endless monotony. We do the same things over and over again, endless drills. If we're going to fight, I'd rather just fight, instead of this constant waiting!_

_I suppose you're starting to think about Christmas? It doesn't seem possible that the holidays are coming up. I can't quite believe that we'll ever know anything but mud and gloom, forever and ever, world without end, amen._

_Write something cheerful to me, fawn—I beg you. Remind me that sunshine does still exist somewhere in the world!_

_As always,_

_Peter._

* * *

_Dear Peter,_

_I have something to confess to you: I'm not a very nice person. I always thought I was, but now … I don't think so._

_You remember me mentioning my roommate Samantha? I don't like her. I can't like her. And I said something quite rude to her a while back, and put off apologizing, and now, when I did finally tell her how sorry I was, and she didn't even care, I almost retracted my apology._

_Matty says some people just bring out the worst in us. He's the only other one I've confessed this to. He says that it sounds to him like Samantha just rubs me the wrong way, and I should try to not take anything she says or does personally._

_But oh, it's so hard! I'm used to liking people, Peter. It was always easy for me. I hate having to struggle at it. I _shouldn't_ have to work at it. I should be a big enough person that I can look past the petty little things that bother me._

_After all, when there are people like Hitler out there, what's the point in disliking someone just because she's shallow?_

_The only problem is, these things are easier to write than to practice._

_I know you wanted a cheery letter, and I'm sorry. I'm just feeling rather discouraged with myself right now. I'll try to send a cheerful one in a few days._

_Love always,_

_Meggie._

* * *

_Dear Meggie,_

_You little goose! How can you possibly think you're not a nice person? You are the sweetest girl I've ever known, and I'm a better man just for your friendship. Just because you dislike one person out of everybody you know doesn't make you bad, little chum. It just makes you human._

_I used "just" three times in that paragraph. Don't tell Mum—or my English professors._

_If you were British, I'd tell you to keep a stiff upper lip with this Samantha person. As it is, I'll just tell you to keep trying—the attempt to like her alone will make you stronger._

_I saw Bran yesterday. He doesn't seem affected by the weather, the war, or anything. What a brother! I asked him if he was ever going to propose to Jane, and he just grinned and said not yet, not until he'd made something of himself._

_I hadn't expected him to be so blunt about it. We've never really talked about his infatuation with her—it's just been assumed. Now he openly admitted that he loves her and will marry her someday._

_It made me feel odd—my little brother talking so coolly about love and marriage. Next thing you know Polly will be falling in love—and then maybe even you, fawn! And then where will I be?_

_The bachelor uncle, I suppose, always bringing presents to my nieces and nephews._

_Do you suppose there's a girl out there for me?_

_Love,_

_Peter._

Meggie smiled as she folded up Peter's letter. He always knew how to make her feel better.

As for her falling in love—why, she wasn't even fifteen! Besides, she didn't want to fall in love. Even with as much as she liked the Conservatory, she still just wanted to go home to Green Gables and Papa. Nothing, she was certain, could ever be as fulfilling as that.

Not even falling in love.


	5. Coming Home

"Excited about the holidays, Miss Meggie?" Professor Ashton asked the young girl on the last day of classes.

"Oh, _yes_," Meggie answered, turning a radiant face to him.

"Will you be spending any time with your grandparents?"

"Not with Grandmamma and Grandfather Irving," Meggie said. "We will be at Ingleside the day after Christmas, though. Granddad has asked that everyone who can come."

The professor smiled. "You'll be seeing me, then. Dr. and Mrs. Blythe invited me to stay with them over Christmas break."

"I'm so glad!" Meggie exclaimed impulsively. The stream of students surged around her and carried her away then, leaving her without the chance to say anything more. She thought that it might be slightly odd have her _teacher_ spending time with her family, but she was still glad everyone would get to meet the man Uncle Walter had saved.

Home again! She shivered with delight at the thought. Tomorrow she and Matty would travel with Aunt Rilla's family back to P.E.I. and from there Papa would meet them and take them to Avonlea. To _home_.

Meggie couldn't resist executing a little dance right there in the hallway.

"Ah-HA!" a voice shouted dramatically. "Caught in the act!"

Rose strode toward Meggie, trying to keep a stern frown fixed on her dimpled face. "Dancing in the halls? Tut-tut, Miss Blythe, this will never do. I'm afraid you'll have to pay a penalty."

"What penalty?" Meggie asked laughingly.

Rose tilted her head to one side and placed a finger on her chin thoughtfully. "I think you'll have to come to Boston with Merrill and me for the holidays."

"Not a chance," Meggie answered gaily. "You can lock me in a dungeon, starve me, beat me, do anything you like, but nothing is going to stop me from going home."

Rose sighed heavily and flung her arms around Meggie, breaking into an enormous smile. "I know!" she cried. "I can't even be angry with you for wanting to go home instead of coming with me, because I feel _exactly_ the same way! Oh, isn't Christmas glorious!" She caught Meggie around the waist and waltzed down the hallway with her, much to the disapproval of several of the watching teachers.

"Well really," sniffed Miss Graves, the upper-level piano instructor. "What _are_ we coming to?"

"It's Christmas, Miss Graves," Professor Ashton told her with an indulgent smile playing about his lips.

The tall, thin woman expressed her opinion of Christmas with a disdainful sniff.

Meggie and Rose, halfway down the wide hall, cared nothing for the grim teacher's opinion. They finally came to a halt, gasping for breath and giggling helplessly.

"You will have to spend some holidays with me sometime," Rose insisted. "If not this year, then maybe next. And I can come visit your beloved Avonlea."

"Rose," Meggie reminded her, "I'm only here for one year, remember?"

Rose pouted. "Do you _have_ to leave?"

"No," Meggie considered. "Grandmamma would be very happy if I stayed longer. But Papa told me I'd only have to do one year."

"That was if you hated it," Rose reminded her, having heard the tale before. "If you want to stay, he won't mind."

Meggie laughed. "Don't be silly! It's hard enough being away from Green Gables for one year—especially now, with a war on. I couldn't possibly stay longer."

"We'll all miss you so next year," Rose sighed, giving in to bleak prophecies. "We'll have a new roommate who won't want to be part of our happy, madcap little crew, and she won't understand us, and she'll probably _smoke_, and nothing will be the same again. And you'll forget all about us back there in your wonderful little haven, and then I'll _never_ get to visit Prince Edward Island!"

Meggie couldn't take Rose's italics or dramatics very seriously—not with the vision of home shining before her like a beacon. "Don't think about next year," she suggested. "Think about Christmas."

"Don't think about it, says she," Rose grumbled, her adorable little face looking comical in its gloom. "Easy for her to say, when _she's_ the one who will be happy back home, wasting her talents and gifts, leaving the rest of us bereft and lonely."

Meggie doubled over with giggles. "Oh, Rose."

Rose continued mournfully, as though she hadn't heard. "We could have had such fun, too, the four of us. Merrill is finally starting to come out of her shell, and Samantha is calming down, and you're finally starting to live in the real world …"

She got no further. "Rose!" Meggie interrupted. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You know, dear one. When you first arrived here, you just seemed so other-worldly, like you didn't belong or care about mundane mortals at all." She squeezed Meggie's arm chummily. "But that was just until I got to know you better. Now I know you're the dearest, sweetest girl ever to leave Prince Edward Island, and I refuse to believe that we only have half a year left together!"

She waltzed on down the hall, leaving Meggie only slightly perturbed by the Bostonian's assessment of her character.

* * *

One day later, Meggie wondered just what was wrong with her. Anna and Ally's gleeful chatter, usually so fun, just grated on her ears as they excitedly discussed what they hoped to receive for Christmas. Gil's calm superiority made her want to shake him, and even Teddy's sweet smile couldn't lift her spirits.

Matty, of course, saw that something was bothering his twin, but couldn't get a moment alone with her during the train or ferry ride to ask what was troubling her.

"I wish you were coming with us to the Glen," Ally mourned their last day together. "We've gotten so used to having you two around. Can't you convince Uncle Shirley to come to Ingleside for Christmas instead of the day after?"

Meggie privately thought that she would rather fry in burning oil than give up their peaceful family Christmas, but she held her tongue and let Matty answer.

"No," he said simply, and Ally had to be content with that.

Finally—finally!—Aunt Rilla and Uncle Ken piled everyone into their rented car and drove off to the Glen, leaving Meggie and Matty truly alone for the first time in nearly five months. Aunt Rilla had worried about leaving the two of them by themselves until Shirley came, but Matty told her that the truck had probably broken down again, and Uncle Ken reminded her that Aunt Faith was waiting dinner for them.

She clucked (Meggie's unkind description), but agreed, much to Meggie's relief, who had thought that if she had to endure one more moment of chatter and fuss she would start screaming and not be able to stop.

She and Matty sat in blessed silence for a few minutes before Matty broke with habit and spoke first.

"What's eating you, sis?"

Meggie sighed—again, uncharacteristically. "I—don't—know," she answered slowly. "I just know that all of the sudden even coming home doesn't thrill me like it ought. I don't want to see anybody, don't want to talk to anybody … I just want to curl up into a little ball and hide from life. I feel _old_, Matty—which is just silly."

"You're probably only tired," Matty said practically. Despite his calm words, his brown eyes looked worried. He'd never seen Meggie so tense and irritable.

"I hope that's just it," Meggie said, her fingers nervously pleating her skirt into little tiny folds. "I'd hate to think that I was really changing—not like this, anyway."

"So would I," Matty said, and Meggie couldn't help but laugh a little.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding a bit more like herself. "Here we are finally home—or almost—and all I can do is whine."

"You're not whining," Matty reassured her. "Not really."

"Talk to me about school," Meggie requested, leaning her head back on the bench. "We never really get a chance to talk about our lives on the weekends. Gil is always with you, and Anna and Ally never give me a moment's peace—oh dear!" She sat up and opened her eyes in dismay. "There I go complaining again. Just talk to me, Matty. Help me to stop thinking about _me_."

He complied. "Everyone has gone mad about the war," he said. "Almost all the senior class has joined up. Gil is insisting that he will as soon as he's eighteen, even though Aunt Rilla told him she would never permit it."

"Maybe the war will be over by then," Meggie said, hoping rather than believing it to be true.

Matty shrugged, his body language stating clearly what he thoughts was the likelihood of _that_ happening. "The other fellows have finally started leaving me alone about sports. They just labeled me a bookworm, and left it at that." He grinned. "Gil's mortified, but I don't care."

"You aren't a bookworm," Meggie said blankly. "You'd always rather be outside working than inside reading a book or studying."

"I know, but they don't offer farming or fixing machinery as an extracurricular activity, so there's not much for me to do outside," he said. "Besides, it's not like I hate reading."

"Especially if it's a murder mystery," Meggie teased, knowing her twin's fondness for the likes of Agatha Christie, G.K. Chesterton, and Edgar Wallace.

He grinned back. "Absolutely," he agreed.

Their conversation was broken by a familiar wheezing rattle. "Papa!" Meggie exclaimed, leaping to her feet to catch sight of the ancient truck.

It coughed its way to a stop before them, and their beloved father burst out to try to hug both of them at once.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said, as soon as any of them could speak at all. "The truck"—

"Broke down, we guessed," Matty finished.

Meggie laughed blithely, all thoughts of weariness sand depression temporarily vanished. "We didn't mind one bit. It wouldn't seem like coming home without the truck breaking down at least once."

"Well, if we're lucky, maybe it will give out again on the way home," Shirley Blythe commented wryly as he went to collect their bags.

Meggie found all her ennui dissipated as they drove home. Why, how could she have thought that homecoming wasn't anything special? Her spirit soared as they traversed the familiar roads—roads that members of her family had traveled for many, many years. For a moment she almost thought she could _see_ them, those ghosts of the past: Aunties Nan and Di, giggling together as they came to visit Aunt Marilla; Uncle Jem, sturdy and long-legged, content in the knowledge that he was the favorite, however much Aunt Marilla doted on the girls; Uncle Walter, dreaming about beauty with his clear grey eyes fixed on some unseen point.

She saw other phantom figures peopling the road, as well. Her own dear mama, coming from Boston with Grandmamma and Grandfather Irving to visit Echo Lodge; Papa, lean and brown and young, traveling to Avonlea to teach—and there, though he did not know it then, to meet his Cecily.

There were Peter and Bran and Polly as young children, twisting around in the car to see everything as Uncle Patrick and Auntie Di brought them to their first "really-truly" home. And surely—surely there were she and Matty as babies, sleeping contentedly in this very truck as Papa brought them home to Green Gables after Mama died.

At the head of this cavalcade of specters, leading them all with a merry laugh, was a red-haired, grey-eyed, skinny little girl in a dreadful wincey dress, clutching an ancient carpetbag and talking rapidly to the shy man driving the buggy.

"Follow me!" she seemed to say, waving them all on. "I'll lead you home!"

Meggie shivered and came back to herself. She knew these fancies of hers weren't real—but sometimes they were so vivid she had a difficult time remembering that.

There—there on the hill before them, warm lights winking out—there was home. Green Gables, as sturdy and comfortable and homey as it was when Grandmother was a little girl. It recognized them—welcomed them—had _missed_ them—was glad to see them home. Meggie thought for a moment, as the truck rattled to a stop, that she must hug and kiss _everything_ in her joy at coming home.

Oh, she hadn't been sick at all—at least, not with a physical illness. Now that she was back where she belonged, everything was just fine. War and school, faded into the background. Here, for at least a little while, she could just be _Meggie_ again.

Meggie of Green Gables, once more.

* * *

Unfortunately, Meggie's euphoria at coming home came and went in spurts, interspersed by bouts of gloom and lethargy. Auntie Di noted it and put it down to growing pains. Shirley also noted it, but was less able to dismiss it so lightly.

"What if there's something really troubling her, Di?" he asked one evening when the two families were gathered together for supper.

"She would tell you," Di reassured him. "She's never kept a secret from you in her life."

"She did once," he remembered, thinking back to the time the twins had feared he would marry Una Meredith. He didn't explain his cryptic remark to Di, but went on to say, "Do you think anything happened at school that she's afraid to tell me?"

"Nonsense!" Di said robustly. "Rilla and Ken have been keeping a close eye on both the twins. If anything had happened, they would have heard of it."

Shirley was quieted but not convinced. How to explain to his dear, practical sister that he didn't think either Rilla or Ken could quite understand Meggie's sensitive temperament? She was so quiet, it was easy for people to think she was rather simple.

He knew better, though. He knew his daughter better than anyone but Matty (even Shirley had to admit that his children had a bond with each other that superseded his), and he knew that she was not herself.

"Shirley," Di said, recognizing his trouble, "you are a wonderful father. But you are a _man_. Trust me when I say that this is perfectly normal for a girl of Meggie's age. She's experiencing many changes, and probably can't understand them all. She confused and frustrated with herself, and that just bleeds over into everything else. This is a difficult time for any girl; going through it with a war on just makes it even harder."

Shirley sighed. _If only her mother were still alive_, he thought silently.

Di seemed to understand him, for she patted his arm sympathetically. "Do you want me to talk to her? I've gone through this with Polly—and trust me, she was _far_ more temperamental than Meggie!"

Shirley smiled at this, his favorite sister. "Thanks," he said laconically, and Di understood him perfectly.

* * *

"This will pass," Auntie Di said to her niece, her striking gray-green eyes warmly sympathetic. "I know right now you feel one day like you want to cry and the next that you want to laugh; I know you feel like a stranger in your own skin. It will be miserable for a while"—that was the beautiful thing about Auntie Di: even when she was comforting, she never told soothing lies—"but eventually it _will_ pass, and you will know who you are again. Who knows," smiling a little, "you may even like yourself again."

"Oh Auntie," Meggie sighed, feeling immensely better. "That's just it _exactly_. I _don't_ know who I am, but I'm pretty sure I don't like me. You are _sure_ it won't last?"

And Auntie Di, to her eternal credit, didn't even betray a hint of laughter at Meggie's italics as she assured her, that yes, she was positive it wouldn't last.

"_Thank_ you," Meggie said fervently.

* * *

_Dear Meggie,_

_Things are pretty bleak right now. This isn't the first Christmas I've spent away from home—but somehow it seems harder to endure than ever before. I saw Bran in passing the other day (_he_ looks as cheerful and good-natured as ever, the scamp!), and that helped some, but it's still hard. I keep thinking of you all at home and wishing I could be there. Polly, quite the grown-up lady by now, glowing with love and winding Dad around her little finger still. Mum, looking like a queen as she laughs over one of Bran's pranks. Matty still looking like a miniature of Uncle Shirley, out shoveling snow while the rest of us are lazing about. Uncle Shirley himself talking with Dad, both still seeming like young men despite the grey creeping into their hair._

_And you, of course, fawn. Though somehow I can't picture you as you are now. Every time I try, I conjure up an image of you at age ten. Do you remember that day we discovered Echo Lodge? I see you as you were then, looking like one of our English primroses in your yellow dress, your curls bouncing around your shoulders, your brown eyes seeing some wonderful bit of fairy magic no one else could envision. You would get a look sometimes, as if you were hearing a strain of far-off music, something unearthly, which was inaudible to the rest of mortality. I think the fairies gave you a little extra something in the cradle, my Meggie._

_What nonsense I'm writing! I'm just homesick, I guess. I hate this war already. I wish I was out of it—but someone has to fight, so why should I hope to be spared? _

_This isn't a very good Christmas letter, is it, chum? But can you guess that all my squadron-mates are all depressed over missing Christmas with their families, and have been grumbling for four days? And that it's raining (as usual)? And dreary?_

_All my worries aside, I hope you have a very happy Christmas. I'm glad to think that you'll all be gathered at Ingleside for a family celebration. I'll think of you all in the old "ancestral mansion" saying a prayer for Bran and me. I'm sending you, Mum, and Polly Christmas presents, but I'm mailing this letter separately, in case something happens and the package doesn't make it._

_Happy Christmas, fawn._

_Peter._

Peter's box arrived the day before Christmas. Polly brought over Meggie's individually-wrapped present herself.

"I thought about waiting until we were at Ingleside, but I knew you'd want it now," she said. Polly was nearly sixteen now, and though a very elegant and polished young lady, still exhibited a childlike curiosity about Meggie's present. "Mum's making me wait until tomorrow to open mine," she sighed.

The two girls were alone in Green Gables' kitchen, where Meggie was frosting Christmas cookies. She looked around conspiratorially. "Well, nobody is here to tell me to wait," she said, and tore the tissue paper away from the box.

Nestled in a soft bed of cotton was a tiny silver brooch. A five-petaled flower faced them front-on, surrounded by a circular rim with leaves etched into it.

"Ooh," the girls chorused together. Meggie picked up the note attached to the brooch and read it aloud.

"Dear Meggie, this is _your_ brooch. It's a primrose. Happy Christmas."

"It's beautiful," Polly said wistfully as Meggie lifted it out with reverent hands and pinned it on her green-and-pink print dress.

The brooch was beautiful, but it was the sentiment behind it that touched Meggie the most. Nobody else knew that Peter had likened her to a primrose—that was one of their cousinly secrets. Though the world might see the brooch as simply a lovely piece of jewelry, to Meggie it was something more: a line connecting her to her cousin, despite whatever might come. No matter what happened in the next few years, they would always remain the best of friends.


	6. 1940

Ingleside was just as warm and homey as ever, though there were a few changes. Granddad's hair was turning silver, and Grandmother's was completely white, much to her glee.

"I know that all the old cats in the village say it's ridiculous for a woman my age to wear pink," she gaily told her granddaughters, "but I've been waiting my whole life for this chance, and I don't care what they say!"

Meggie thought Grandmother looked very sweet in her rose-colored dress, trimmed with bits of old lace, her white hair crowning her head like a soft aureole.

Lily was practically grown up now, too. She had one term left at Queen's, and then she was going to Redmond. She was by far still the most beautiful out of all the clan, with eyes as blue as the gulf, and hair the color of the warm sand. She carried herself with great dignity, too, far different from Polly's immaculate daintiness, or Dee's proud strut, or Meggie's slender straightness.

Walt was turning into a handsome lad, too, with his mother's golden-brown curls and his father's hazel eyes. He still fancied himself a poet, though he was starting to be uneasily aware that his poetry wasn't always very good.

The rest of the clan was just the same, and yet different, too. Gil and Blythe were practically men, always talking about the war. Anna and Ally suddenly decided they'd had enough of tagging after the older girls, and devoted themselves to entertaining Teddy and Baby Katy—who was no longer a baby, being now three and a half years old!

Dee talked about the finishing school she was going to attend in a couple of years, while Polly tried to decide whether she should go to Redmond with Lily, or stay at home and start teaching.

As if the cousins weren't enough, the adults all gabbled away, too. The aunts—Faith, Di, Nan, Una, and Rilla—stayed in the kitchen and chatted while preparing the most delectable New Year's dinner ever seen in Glen St. Mary. They talked about their families, their friends, their charities … everything but the war.

The men, on the other hand—Jem, Jerry, Ken, Patrick, and Shirley—talked nothing but war. They stayed in the living room or Granddad's study, debating the politics and political decisions hotly.

In the midst of all this, Meggie and Matty were more than pleased to slip away with Uncle Bruce, Aunt Betsy, Little Gabe, and the two non-family members staying at Ingleside: Professor Ashton and his nephew, Will.

"This place is a zoo," Uncle Bruce growled after about five minutes inside. "Let's get out where we can breathe."

The other five (and Little Gabe) wholeheartedly agreed, and they escaped from the heat and noise to the pure, crisp air of an Island winter.

The snowfall had been generous thus far that winter, and the fields were covered in a soft white blanket. The trees and fences all bore fluffy coats, and in the distance, the blue ice of the harbor sparkled beckoningly.

Uncle Bruce led the way down the road to the harbor quite naturally, and the rest fell in behind him. Professor Ashton, always courteous, offered to carry Little Gabe for Aunt Betsy, and when she assured him with perfect truth that she was fine, he joined Uncle Bruce at the head of their small procession.

Matty fell into step beside Aunt Betsy—he had always shared a special bond with this young girl-aunt of theirs. They began talking of church matters and school; Aunt Betsy was so proud to hear that Matty (or Matt, as all his classmates called him) was head of his class in mathematics and geography. For his part, Matty showed the same grave interest in Aunt Betsy's new sewing circle with the harbor girls as he did to a new and complicated piece of machinery.

Meggie and Will loitered a bit behind the others. Meggie was having one of her grey days, and was thankful that her companion wasn't inclined to talk. Under other circumstances—if she felt more like herself—she knew she would have liked Will Ashton very much; as it was, she merely tolerated his presence.

Will was really a pleasant fellow; his best friends couldn't call him handsome, but he had a good-natured face that looked serious enough in repose, but was most often broken by a charming grin. If his ears _did_ stick out slightly, his blue eyes twinkled merrily enough to make up for them, and if his hair _was_ an indeterminate color between brown and blond, at least it was thick and curly.

He was seventeen years old, and lived with his uncle during the holidays. The rest of the year, he went to school in Montreal, where he was preparing to enter divinity school in three years.

"Or at least," he had explained to Uncle Bruce candidly, "that was the plan before the war. I'll have to join up next year, you know, and who knows what will happen after that?"

"Have faith," Uncle Bruce had told him solemnly. "If it is God's will, He will make a way."

The other girl cousins pronounced him "dull" (meaning he wasn't the dashingly romantic stranger they had secretly hoped to meet), but Meggie appreciated his quiet humor and restful manner.

They were halfway to the harbor before either of them spoke. As they rounded the corner and could see the lighthouse in full, Will drew in a long, satisfied breath.

"Ah-h-h," he murmured. "Now that's something like."

Meggie eyed him curiously, and he flashed his warm, open smile. "I grew up in a city, moved to a city, and still live in a city," he explained. "I've always thought it would be grand to live someplace where you can breathe … someplace with elbow room."

Tolerance shifted to friendliness as Meggie decided Will was an extremely sensible person. "I love living in the country," she agreed. "The hardest thing for me at the Conservatory—well, aside from missing Matty and Papa—has been how crowded the city is. There's no place to go to just be alone! And, tell me, are all cities as dirty as Toronto?"

Will laughed. "Some are worse," he assured her. "I grew up in Milton, and let me tell you, you've never seen dirt and smoke until you've seen Milton!"

"Milton," Meggie frowned. "What province is that in?"

Will had just one lone dimple in his left cheek that showed whenever he smiled, giving his grin its lopsided effect. "England," he told her. "I was born in England."

"My cousins are from England!" Meggie exclaimed, delighted. She wondered now how she could have missed his faint accent.

"I haven't been there in seven years," he mused. "I suppose it's dreadful to say, but I don't miss it at all. Canada is … beautiful. So fresh."

"However did you end up here?" Meggie asked curiously.

"My dad was Canadian born and bred," Will said. "He met an English girl during the war—the first war—and fell in love with both her and the country. They got married and lived there ever after. They died when I was just a shaver, and I moved to Toronto to live with Uncle Kip."

Meggie looked up ahead at Professor Ashton's distinguished figure. "Is he your Uncle Kip?"

"He's the one," Will assured her.

"I'm sorry about your parents," Meggie told him soberly. She knew how hard it was sometimes not having a mother; she couldn't imagine trying to go through life without either parent.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "I was only ten at the time. Mum's mother—my grandmother—offered to take me in and raise me, but when Uncle Kip showed up on her doorstep two days after the funeral, I was so relieved! I hated Milton—hated it with a passion. Even Toronto seems like a paradise compared to my home city."

"Do you have much family left in England?"

"Grandmother Thornton, Uncle Frank and Aunt Betty, and Aunt Cass, my mum's youngest sister. Uncle Frank owns and operates one of the largest cotton mills, and the rest of the family works with or for him." He shuddered. "That's what I was destined for, if Uncle Kip hadn't rescued me."

"And now you're going to be a minister," Meggie smiled.

He didn't give an answering smile. "God willing," he said seriously. "It is the desire of my heart."

Meggie was somewhat taken aback at the depth of his passion, and made no reply. She wondered what it would be like to know so clearly what one was called to do.

* * *

The feast was long and merry at Ingleside that night. Professor Ashton whispered to Meggie while they were all waiting to sit,

"If I had known just _how_ large your family was, Miss Meggie, I might have thought twice before accepting your grandparents' invitation!"

"Then," Meggie took great delight in telling him saucily, "I am very glad you did not know!"

Before they ate, Granddad stood up at the head of the table. "We certainly are blessed, Anne," he said, looking fondly at his wife of nearly fifty years, "to have so many of our family gathered around us." He looked down the expanse of table. "Jem and Faith, and Lily and Walt … Nan and Jerry, and Blythe and Dee … Di and Patrick, and Polly … Shirley, and Matty and Meggie … Rilla and Kenneth, and Gil, Anna, Ally, and Teddy … Una, and Baby Katy … Bruce and Betsy, and Little Gabe … and new friends, too: Christopher and Will Ashton." He raised his glass.

Aunt Rilla stood. "Before we drink, I want to remember those who _aren't_ with us." Her voice trembled slightly, but she steadied it and began reciting: "Carl in Africa, and Persis in France … Mother and Father Ford in Toronto … Bran and Peter in England … Johnny, er, somewhere … Cecily and Walter and Joyce and Aidan, and Reverend and Mrs. Meredith with God."

"And dear old Susan Baker," Shirley added.

Granddad raised his glass once more. "To family."

"To family," they all echoed.

Meggie sipped her cider solemnly. It was a marvelous thing, she decided, to be part of a family like hers.

It was a meal full of laughter and memories. Meggie thrilled to hear her elders talk about their younger days.

"Do you remember?" was the most frequent phrase uttered.

"Do you remember the time Walter and I rode the pigs through town?" Aunt Faith shrieked with laughter. "Poor Miss Cornelia was so horrified!"

"Do you remember all the trout we used to catch in the brook, Jem?" Uncle Jerry asked.

Uncle Ken winked at his wife. "Do you remember the time Rilla threw Susan Baker's cake in the brook because she thought it was disgraceful to carry it through town?"

Everyone roared when Rilla swatted him.

"Do you remember when Jerry and I showed up on your doorstep, Di, after we eloped?" Auntie Nan giggled. "I'll never forget the look on your face!"

Auntie Di snorted. "I'll never forget the heart attack you two nearly gave me. Do you all remember the hideous wedding you forced Patrick and me through?"

"It was not hideous!" Aunt Rilla protested. "It was lovely, and you were a stunning bride."

"I had twelve bridesmaids," Auntie Di said. "And four flower girls. You invited the entire Glen, and …"

Uncle Patrick cut her off by leaning over and kissing her. "What are you complaining about?" he asked. "You got to marry me."

"That _almost_ made it worth the fuss," Auntie Di retorted.

Granddad smiled down at Grandmother. "Do you remember our first New Year's, Anne-girl?"

Grandmother's eyes grew dreamy. "With dear old Captain Jim."

Next to Meggie, Prof. Ashton sighed. "So many family memories," he murmured. "What a blessing."

Meggie wondered what it would be like not to be part of a large clan that had memories for every occasion.

She couldn't fathom it.

* * *

Uncle Bruce and Aunt Betsy took Baby Katy and Little Gabe back to the manse early, leaving the rest to linger long into the night. Finally, Shirley rounded up the twins and made his way to the door.

"Leaving?" Prof. Ashton asked. Upon hearing Shirley's affirmative, he asked if he and Will might accompany them.

"Of course," Shirley answered.

"May I come as well?"

Shirley turned to Una. "Una! I thought you'd gone back with Bruce and Betsy."

Una smiled a little sadly. "No," she said. "I was still here."

The small group set out, waving goodbye to the merry crowd still inside. Shirley, Aunt Una, and Professor Ashton walked a bit slower than the younger three, soon dropping behind to loiter along the way.

"So many memories," Aunt Una said, looking down to where Rainbow Valley shimmered in the moonlight.

"Private Blythe—Walter—spoke so much of his home that I almost feel I already know all these places," Professor Ashton mused. "I've never set foot in your 'Rainbow Valley,' but I recognize it as well as I do my childhood home."

"Walter did love this place," Shirley agreed. "More so than any of the rest of us, I think. But then, Walter felt most things more deeply than the rest of us."

Aunt Una said nothing, but her steps lagged a little.

"Tired, Una?" Shirley asked courteously. He extended his arm. "Here, lean on me until we get back."

Her laugh sounded weary. "I forgot for a little while tonight that I'm not as young as I used to be. I _should_ have come home with Bruce and Betsy and the little ones, but I didn't even feel tired until now."

"It's hard on all of us to admit we're getting older," Shirley said. "I look at my Meggie and Matty and can't quite believe they're mine. When did my two tiny babies grow into this strong young man and lovely girl?"

"I never felt old until this war," Professor Ashton said. "Now I see my nephew thinking about joining up in a year, and realize our war was a generation ago. Some days it seems like a lifetime … others like it was only yesterday."

"This war," Una said, sudden bitterness in her voice. "How hideous is it that we now have to clarify wars? The first war—_our_ war—was supposed to be the last. Father claimed that it was the start of a brave new world. Yet here we are again, barely a generation later, facing another one! What was the point of all the sacrifices we made, if our children just have to fight it all over again?"

"Easy there, Una," Shirley said, his voice low and calm. It was the some voice he used to settle nervous horses, and it worked as well on Una.

"I'm sorry," she said, glancing between the two men. "I don't know what came over me. Just tiredness, I suppose."

"Don't apologize," Professor Ashton said. "I think we all feel the same way. Most of us just don't dare say it—too afraid to bring such thoughts out into the open."

Shirley said nothing. He watched his children walk blithely along the road with their taller companion, fearless and strong. He remembered the days when Una was full of hope … when Rilla and Di didn't have that haunted look in their eyes … when Faith's laughter was free … when Nan's brow was unfurrowed.

It wasn't just the girls who had been changed by the war. Jerry and Carl and Jem had all been wounded. They had all killed men and seen death beckoning to them, sometimes coming within a breath of whisking them away.

He had hoped—oh, how he had prayed—that his children would be spared such horrors, that their youth would not be shadowed by the same clouds that had obscured his and his peers.

God, it would seem, had other plans. Shirley now could only ask for strength for them all to endure the days ahead. Worse, he thought, even than fighting himself, would be watching while his son and nephews went off to fight … and watching his daughter wait for them to return.

Ashton was right, he decided. Such thoughts were better left hidden.


	7. Conversations

Meggie woke up surprisingly early on the first day of 1940. All at once, she decided she wanted to explore Rainbow Valley by dawn. She had never seen in that early before, and she imagined it would be beautiful, all coated with snow and ice, everything etched by the rising sun.

She wriggled out of bed and hurriedly dressed, barely taking the time to toss on her coat and mittens and pull her knit cap down over her ears before running easily down the stairs, shoving her feet into her boots, and going out the door.

It was a lovely morning. The sun was just starting to poke its face out of the pink clouds, and in the deep blue sky overhead one or two stars still twinkled. Ice shone like crystal fire on every twig and branch, turning Rainbow Valley into a prismatic palace.

Meggie wandered happily among its dells and nooks for a while, reveling in its beauty and humming softly to herself. She felt almost perfectly content. For a moment, she was somewhat disgruntled that she couldn't be perfectly content, but then she remembered her talk with Auntie Di, and decided not to worry.

"Besides," she said softly, unwilling to speak loudly amidst such beauty, "With two cousins fighting in the war, and another one living on the streets somewhere, it would almost be wrong to be _perfectly_ happy."

She sat down on a fallen tree trunk near the little brook that was iced over and cupped her chin in her hands, wandering blissfully though enchanted fairy realms and conversing with the dryads in her dreams.

"Well, good morning to you, Meggie Blythe."

Meggie jumped. For a moment, she thought that one of her dream-people had come to life. Then she turned her head, and saw someone nearly as surprising.

"Jane Stuart!" she cried. "Whatever are you doing here?"

Jane Stuart, Bran's particular friend, and adopted cousin to the rest of the clan, thrust her hands a little deeper into her navy wool coat and came forward to sit by Meggie. "This is my last Christmas at home for a while, so I convinced Mums and Dad that we should spend it at Lantern Hill. I love our home in Toronto, but Lantern Hill is just …" she trailed off.

"I know," Meggie said sympathetically. "I feel the same way about Green Gables. But that still doesn't explain why you're here, at Rainbow Valley. And why is this your last home Christmas?"

Jane's smile had a hint of bitterness in it. "I'm a VAD. I'll be leaving for England in just a couple of weeks to start my training."

"Oh!" Meggie eyes grew round. "I didn't know."

Jane sighed. "Nobody did until just a short while ago. I mentioned the possibility—once—to Dad, and he nearly threw a fit. He absolutely forbade me to even think about it." She broke off an ice-covered twig and twirled it between her gloved fingers. "So I didn't think about it—I just signed up. I waited to break to news to him and Mother until I heard when I was leaving."

"How did he take it?" Meggie asked.

"Not well," Jane said. "The Stuart temper, you know. Mother cried, and Lyssa cried, and Aunt Irene sniffed and shook her finger at me, and called me romantic, but I stood firm. I've made my choice." She smiled. "They calmed down enough for us to give Lyssa one last happy Christmas, but I don't think Dad has quite forgiven me yet."

"Well, I think you're awfully noble," Meggie said firmly.

Jane shook her head. "I'm not noble at all, Meggie. In fact, I'm going over for purely selfish reasons." She smiled wryly at Meggie's quizzical expression. "Haven't you guessed yet why I am here? Because this is the last place I saw Bran."

"Oh," Meggie said again, feeling it a rather inadequate syllable.

Jane gazed off over the trees. "He told me what he was planning before he left for England. It was nearing the end of summer, and you all were here for one of your family gatherings, and I came over to spend the day with Bran—supposedly with all of you, but really with Bran.

"We walked here in the valley for hours, and he told me that once he got to England he was going to join the RAF. He asked me not to tell anyone else, though, and then he told me …" She stopped. "Well, that part is just for me, still. That was when I asked dad what he thought about me becoming a VAD, and that is why I'm going over.

"If anything happens to Bran, I want to be there."

"I didn't know you were so serious," Meggie said.

"We weren't, until he left. And I'm not telling anyone else he's the reason I'm going over—Dad would really lose it then, and Aunt Irene would be unbearable."

"I won't say a word," Meggie promised.

"I know," Jane tossed the melting ice away and smiled brilliantly. "You're the most trustworthy person I know." She looked all around the valley. "Who would have thought I could be so sappy?"

Meggie couldn't help but laugh. 'Sappy' certainly was never a word she'd associated with practical, sensible, hardworking Jane.

"I told Jody yesterday that I'll be leaving for England," Jane continued. Meggie remembered that Jody was one of Jane's dearest friends. "She wants to go, too, but she doesn't want to leave Miss Violet all alone."

Jane propped her chin on her hand and kept talking, apparently forgetful of her audience. "All the boys from Lantern Corners have joined … Elmer, Young John, Penny, and Punch. Min declared she's going to cut her hair and disguise herself as a boy so she can join up … but I don't think she's serious. I _hope_ she's not … Colby Westin is a lieutenant, and Abbie has started a Red Cross in Toronto and Eden is president of one at her university, and Lali and Sunny Stedman's older brother is going, and Cam is trying to get in as a medic instead of merely a nurse …" she shook herself. "Sorry, Meggie. Our world is changing around us, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," Meggie agreed, with a hint of wistfulness in her brook-brown eyes.

Jane looked up at the sun. "Goodness, how late it has gotten! I must run, or I'll be late for breakfast. Thank goodness I brought the car."

"I should get back, too, and see if Aunt Betsy needs any help," Meggie said, standing up and shaking the snow off her wool skirt. She impulsively hugged the older girl. "Good luck, Jane."

"Meggie—will you write to me? I know we've never been that close, but I'd like to hear all the news from your family … and you're the only one who knows about Bran, so I can be more open with you …"

Meggie was so awed at the sight of the self-assured Jane Stuart stammering that she almost couldn't answer for a moment. Then she said yes, of course she would write, and Jane ran off toward the road, waving her hand jauntily.

Meggie felt a chill that had nothing to do with the January temperature. Peter, Bran, Elliot Douglas, and now Jane Stuart. How many more would leave before the war was done?

And how many would come back?

* * *

In another part of Rainbow Valley, two other people were walking and talking. Christopher Ashton had arrived at the manse before breakfast to invite Una for a walk. She agreed shyly, in a moment reverting back to her old self, the person she had been before moving to India.

"I want to ask you something, Miss Una," Christopher said hesitantly.

Una glanced at him out of her almond-shaped eyes. Was she about to receive her first proposal? Nonsense, she told herself sharply. She had only met Christopher last night.

"Certainly," she said sweetly.

"Were you and Walter—were you"—he stumbled helplessly over the words.

Una felt a stab of pain. It had been more than twenty years since Walter's death, yet it still hurt to think about him. "Walter and I were friends, nothing more," she said.

_Nothing more._ Oh, how she wished she could change that. Even if he'd still died, to have had him as her own, to be able to say, "Yes, Walter and I were engaged," or married, or even courting. It would have made all the difference. All she had was a letter—a letter not even addressed to her, a letter in which he only briefly mentioned her. For twenty years, she had tried to convince herself that he had loved her, and only realized it at the end … and now, with one simple question, all her doubts resurfaced.

"He spoke of you often, you know," Christopher continued.

Una wanted to put her hands over her ears.

"He spoke of everyone at home, but most especially of this valley … and of you."

She didn't want to hear this, didn't want to know. She wanted to cling to her illusions, to her dreams of how Walter had felt.

_God, why? Why now?_

"He described you so perfectly—a slender slip of a girl, just blossoming into womanhood, with hair like the night, and skin like the moon, and eyes that looked into a man's soul and made him want to be a better person. When I saw you last night, I knew at once who you were. You're a woman now, no longer a girl … but still as beautiful, and still as sweet."

Walter had said that? About her?

"I've always wanted to meet his family," Christopher said, his words stumbling now. "Most especially I wanted to meet you."

Una finally found her voice. "Why?"

Christopher stopped. He turned to face her, and she saw the pain in his green eyes. "To apologize. He saved my life … and I couldn't save his."

"It wasn't your fault," Una said mechanically.

Christopher shrugged. "It's not about fault. It's about balance. I owe him my life. I can never now repay that debt. And so … I am sorry."

"Why are you telling me this?" Una whispered. "Why me, instead of Dr. and Mrs. Blythe? Or Rilla, or Di, or Jem?"

"Because," Christopher answered, "His death hurt you worse than any of them."

"How can you say that?"

"It is the truth."

"How do you know?"

He looked into her face. "I know."

Una couldn't reply. She lowered her eyes to the ground and walked on in silence.

* * *

Another significant conversation took place that winter morning, this one after breakfast. Reverend Bruce Meredith sat down across from his wife of five years, the mother of his son, and the light of his existence, and prepared to break her heart.

"Betsy," he said, "I'm joining up."

Just like that—no easy way around it. No way to soften those dreadful words.

Betsy blanched underneath her tanned skin, but her brown eyes held his steadily. "I knew this was coming," she said calmly.

"I hate to leave you and Little Gabe," Bruce said, the doubts he hadn't allowed himself to feel before coming out now to torment him.

His blessed, wonderful wife put a work-hardened hand over his. "Bruce," she said. "We will be just fine. Go."

His breathing eased. "You mean that, don't you." It was a statement, not a question.

She smiled. "I will do my share of crying after you leave, beloved. But I would not hold you here if you felt it your duty to go."

"It won't be as bad as it could be," he hastened to assure her. "I spoke to Presbytery—they'll be nominating me as a chaplain. If the army accepts me, I'll be a non-combatant."

"And if not?"

He dropped his eyes. "Then I'll enlist as a regular soldier."

Betsy placed her hand under her chin and raised his head. "Then I will pray ceaselessly that you are accepted as a chaplain."

He clutched her hand to his cheek. "How did I ever end up with a wife such as you?"

She smiled cheekily. "God's grace, dearest. Isn't that one of your chief doctrines?"

* * *

At Ingleside, Anne and Gilbert Blythe were also speaking. "Things are changing, Gilbert," Anne said wistfully. "I can feel it. We will never all be gathered around the festive table together again."

Gilbert put his arms around her. "At least, then, we had this time. After all, Anne-girl," and his voice trembled perceptibly, "Overall, it has been a good life, hasn't it?"

Anne nestled her head against his chest. "We've faced it together. That has made it good."

"And we'll face whatever comes together, too, my Anne. Never doubt that."

Resting in his arms, the place she was happiest, Anne found that she _could_ not doubt it.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** This brings me back to where I had left off before. What do you think? Do you like this newer version, or did you prefer the first attempt? Let me know!  
_


	8. Winter Days

The first weekend after school started, Meggie was surprised that nobody came to meet her at the 'bus stop. Although Meggie told Aunt Rilla every week that she could get from the Conservatory to the Ford house just fine, Aunt Rilla always insisted that Uncle Ken meet her.

This week, however, Meggie saw no sign of Uncle Ken. After waiting for him for half an hour, she finally decided he wasn't coming, and boarded the 'bus herself.

She hoped he hadn't been in an accident or anything. It was possible that Aunt Rilla had finally decided to trust Meggie to arrive by herself, but she thought it odd that her aunt hadn't said anything to her about it.

Still, riding alone was a novelty, and as Meggie couldn't know one way or another about Uncle Ken, she decided not to worry, and just to enjoy the ride.

She especially enjoyed people-watching, something else impossible to do in Avonlea. Two boys dressed in the uniforms of one of Toronto's many private schools sat in the seat in front of her, sharing a bag of peanuts and reading the comics. A weary-looking mother sat holding her screaming toddler a few seats back, while a well-dressed businessman shot her disgusted looks over the top of his newspaper.

A thin, pale girl with eager eyes sat directly across the aisle from Meggie. She stared out the window and hummed something hopeful-sounding under her breath. Meggie wondered who she was—a shopgirl, perhaps, dreaming about vacationing in the country? Or maybe someone whose fiancé was overseas, and she was thinking about when he would come home.

Maybe she had half a dozen brothers and sister at home, and she was their main supporter and had just received a raise, and was thinking about the looks on their faces when she would tell them. Or maybe she had an invalid mother, and had to work to supplement the family income, and was hoping that soon they'd be able to pay the doctor's bill.

Meggie entertained herself with her fancies all the way to Aunt Rilla's, where she swung off, nodding goodbye to the pale girl, and hurried up the street to the house. It was unexpectedly quiet—Teddy wasn't playing in the front yard, building snowmen or forming snowballs with which to pelt his older brother; Anna and Ally's voices weren't echoing shrilly from their room; the dog wasn't even barking. Meggie's fears returned to her in full. Maybe something _had_ happened to Uncle Ken!

She burst through the front door breathlessly, nearly running over Matty.

"What's happening?" she gasped.

He reached out a hand to steady her. "I've been waiting for you," he whispered. Even _his_ voice was unusually somber. "Uncle Ken is leaving tomorrow. His newspaper is sending him overseas as a war correspondent."

"Oh!" Meggie's first feeling was relief—at least he wasn't hurt! Then the full realization of what this meant reached her. "Oh, poor Aunt Rilla!"

"She's locked herself in her room and won't come out. Uncle Ken and Gil are making arrangements for the family while Uncle Ken's gone, and Anna and Ally are baking in the kitchen with Teddy to keep him from worrying."

"What are they going to do while he's gone?"

Uncle Ken answered himself, coming into the foyer from the hall, where he'd been telephoning. "They're going back home," he said, his face looking old and grim. The white scar on his cheek, which was hardly noticeable most of the time, stood out like a blazing beacon. "I just talked to Mother and Father, and they said that Rilla and the three younger children could stay at the House of Dreams as long as necessary."

"Why not the house on the island?" Matty asked.

"That's only a summer house," Uncle Ken explained. "It wouldn't do for winters." He sighed. "I'm sorry that you two and Gil won't have this place to come back to on weekends."

Meggie crept forward and hugged him. "That's all right," she said softly. "Don't worry about us, Uncle Ken. We'll be just fine."

He hugged her back. "Thank you, Meggie." He stepped away. "Now I have to see if I can get your aunt to speak to me."

He hurried away, and Gil slipped in to join them in the entryway. He looked older already, obviously taking his new duties as man of the house very seriously.

"Dad leaves tomorrow," and his voice even sounded deeper. "I'm going to take the week off from school to help Mother pack and close the house up." He half-smiled regretfully. "I'm afraid this won't be much of a relaxing weekend."

"Honestly, Gil, don't worry about us," Meggie assured him. "We'll be more than happy to help with everything."

"Thanks," he said. He scowled briefly. "This is so unfair! Dad fought in the last war. He shouldn't have to go back. This war is our chance."

"Our?" Matty repeated.

Gil looked at him. "You know—yours, mine, others of our age. Peter and Bran are already in it. Nobody thinks this is going to be over in a few months. No, we're in for the long haul. You might not make it, Matty, but Walt, Blythe and I will. Now how am I supposed to go? I can't leave Mother all alone with the three younger ones."

"That is a terribly thing to say, Gilbert Owen Ford!" Anna stood behind him, her blue eyes flashing, her hands planted on her hips. "Our father is going to _war_, and all you can think about is you!"

Even a week ago, such an accusation would have infuriated Gil, but now he just explained patiently, "That's not how I meant it, Anna. Of course I'm worried about Dad. It's just … doggone it, I'm sixteen and a half, and now all of the sudden I have to be in charge! It's a lot to handle, especially when up to today I was thinking that I would be the one leaving for war in a couple of years, not the one staying behind to take care of the family. Things are just reversed … it's confusing."

Meggie moved past Gil and put her arms around Anna. "Don't get angry at Gil, dear," she said. "You're all going to need to work together to support your mother right now. Getting mad will only make things worse."

Anna was not given to tears—that privilege belonged to Ally, who was extremely emotional, but now she started to cry. "It—not—Gil—that I'm—angry at," she hiccupped. "It's—Father. How can he—go off—and leave us?"

Gil gently pushed Meggie aside and wrapped Anna in a brotherly hug. "I don't think he wants to go, Anna. I think he feels it's his duty."

"His—first—duty—is to—us," she sniffed.

"_We_ can get by without him," Gil pointed out. "We have each other. The war _needs_ him."

"There are—other reporters. Why—can't—one of them—go?"

At that point, Matty caught Meggie's eye and motioned his head toward the door. She understood his unspoken signal and followed him outside, thankful she hadn't bothered taking her coat or hat off.

"Poor Aunt Rilla," she said.

Matty's face was distant. "Meggie," he said suddenly, "Do you think Gil was right? Do you think the war will last until I'm eighteen?"

"I hope not," Meggie said.

Matty shivered. "I don't think I could ever kill somebody, Meggie. I'm not a coward—at least, I don't think I am—but I don't think I could actually bring myself to take another person's life. What right do I have to decide whether he lives or dies?"

"Oh Matty, don't talk about it!" Meggie cried. "I'm sure the war will be over long before it's your time to go."

He shook himself slightly, like a dog ridding its coat of water. "You're probably right. Even if not, I can't do anything about it, so there's no point in worrying, right?"

Meggie nodded firmly. "Right."

But the shadow of fear had touched them both.

* * *

_Dear Meggie,_

_So both Uncle Bruce and Uncle Ken are in this thing now, too, eh? At least they're non-combatants, though I don't suppose that is much consolation to either Aunt Betsy or Aunt Rilla._

_I have to say, Uncle Bruce, at least, is sorely needed. Our chaplain is a useless sort of chap—just goes around mumbling "God be with you," and never gives any real advice or comfort. I hate to think what kind of a reverend he was before the RAF recruited him. I'd wager his parish was glad to be rid of him! Uncle Bruce, though—his is a real Christianity._

_Some of the chaps the other day were cursing the Soviets and the Italians for making deals with the Nazis. I couldn't join in—they lumped all people of that nationality together under one group, and all I could think of were some of the children I grew up with in the Home. Somehow Mum attracted all the international children: we had Katia, from Russia, who was as sweet and gentle and good as anyone you would ever hope to meet; and we had Elisabetta and Francesco, whose parents were Italian, and whose father had died fighting for the Allies in the last war! And now, just because of their nationality, they would be considered enemies._

_Everything is falling apart. The world is very wrong right now. This war is supposed to make things right—but I'm wondering if it's just going to create new problems in place of the old._

_Do I think it will last until you and Matty are eighteen? Lord, I hope not. I can't look more than one mission ahead at a time right now. Looking a bit more than three years into the future (by the by, can you believe you are almost fifteen? I can't!) is a sheer impossibility. I wouldn't fret over Matty too much, though. He'll do the right thing. There's one chap you never have to worry about making an impulsive decision. Our Matty's as steady as a rock._

_Stay strong, little chum. As always, thank you for your letters. You and Polly keep me connected to home._

_Love always,_

_Peter. _

Meggie folded Peter's letter and put it away thoughtfully. She was starting to wonder herself if the war was really worth it—oh, she knew Hitler had to be stopped, but surely, surely they could have stopped him before now without resorting to violence? It was only because the League of Nations had shut their eyes to his political machinations that he carried his plots this far, and now they had matured to the point where they really did have to fight to stop him.

But all the other undertones of the war … the alliances, the maneuvers, the decisions … how many of them were political, rather than necessary for battle? How many soldiers would die unnecessarily?

Meggie knew that most people would consider her unpatriotic for even thinking such things. The popular attitude of the day was to support the war and curse the enemies. She almost wished she could join in her schoolmates' mindless patriotism. It would certainly be more _comfortable_ than suffering all these doubt.

"You look troubled, Miss Meggie," Professor Ashton said.

Meggie put on a smile for her favorite teacher. She hadn't even noticed him approaching the corner of the library where she sat awaiting Rose, Merrill, and Connie for their study group.

"I'm just thinking about the war," she told him.

The professor nodded. "A troubling topic, indeed. Is there anything in particular I may assist with, or are you just worried over the war in general?"

Without meaning to, Meggie found herself telling some of her thoughts to Professor Ashton. He seated himself at the table, listened calmly, and smiled at her when she finished.

"I wouldn't fret too much over being unpatriotic, Miss Meggie," he said. "Those are perfectly normal concerns—perhaps a bit old for someone your age—how old are you again? Nearly fifteen? Yes, those are definitely more than what most fifteen-year-old girls are thinking about, but they don't make you unpatriotic. In fact, I think understanding the hellishness of war and supporting the soldiers despite doubts, is more patriotic than anything else. You do support the soldiers, don't you?"

"Of course!" Meggie exclaimed, shocked that he could even ask. "My cousins are over there, and my friends, and two uncles! I'd do anything to support them, no matter what I felt about the war. And I do think the war is necessary—now. I just wish I thought everything about it necessary—and I wish I didn't think it could have been prevented."

"At the risk of sounding sententious, that is when it is good to remember that there is a Higher Power directing the universe, Miss Meggie. We would do things much differently if we were in control, but we only see part of the picture. He sees the entire masterpiece, and He does what is best—even when it doesn't look that way to us."

Meggie's face lit with a deep and quiet joy. "Thank you," she said in a hushed voice. "I needed to hear that. I think I've needed to hear it for many months now. Everything has just seemed all topsy-turvy and _wrong_. It's good to remember that God is right, even when the world doesn't show it."

Professor Ashton shook his head. "Only fifteen?" he murmured, as to himself. "Good gracious, what will this child know when she grows up?"

Meggie blushed and changed the subject. "I'm surprised you're a teacher, not a minister yourself, after that sermon," she said lightly.

Professor Ashton laughed. "I'll save the ministering for my Will."

"How is Will?" Meggie asked politely.

"Well enough. He's awfully lonely in Montreal. I wish we could be closer, but … I suppose that's just more evidence of God directing the world differently than I would."

"He must have many friends, though."

"Will doesn't make friends easily. I don't know why—_I_ think the boy is likeable enough—but he tends to be a loner. I wish he had a little sister like you who could write to him and cheer him up."

Meggie laughed, oblivious to the subtle hint. "If I meet any nice little sisters, I'll give them Will's address."

"Sorry we're late, Meggie," Rose's light voice interrupted. "Connie wrenched the heel off her shoe and we had to wait for her to change into flats. I've told you not to wear heels, Connie," she added severely.

Connie laughed. "You wear heels, Wild Rose."

"Yes, but I'm _short_," Rose stated patiently. "You're not. You don't need heels, but if I wear flats people step on me because they can't see me." She grinned. "Good afternoon, Professor."

The professor stood. "Ladies," he said courteously, waiting until they were all seated. "I'm glad to catch you all together," he said. "I have a proposition to make you.

"Some of the senior students approached me recently about putting on a concert this spring to raise money for the soldiers. It will be mostly for upper-level students, but they wanted a few lower-level students as well. They asked me to pick some of my students whom I thought would be able to perform well, and I thought of you. Would you—and your friend Samantha, if she is interested—be willing to participate?"

"Of course we would!" Rose cried, forgetting to keep her voice low. She clapped her hands over her mouth as several students glared. "I mean, naturally," she whispered.

"And the rest of you?"

Connie nodded. "I'd love to."

Meggie hesitated. She had never performed in public before ... but she had just said that she would do anything to support the troops, and she wasn't going to be one of those people who always used many words but never backed them up with actions.

"I'll join," she said.

Merrill shook her head. "I could never …" she began.

Rose cut her off with a smothering hug. "We'll all do it," she informed Professor Ashton. "I know Sammy will be happy to help out as well."

"Thank you," the professor said. He nodded politely. "Study well."

"Rose," Merrill wailed quietly as soon as he left. "How could you agree for me? I hate performing!"

"If you are going to be a teacher, you need to learn how to present yourself," Rose said inexorably. "You're terribly talented, and it's a crime to hide that talent under a bushel. The Bible says so."

"I don't think that's exactly what it says, Rose," Connie objected.

Rose waved a careless hand. "Shakespeare, then. Anyway, you are going to perform, and you'll be marvelous." She smiled brightly. "We all will!"


	9. A New Acquaintance

Meggie was very glad to have Rose beside her as she walked into the auditorium for the first concert recital. Facing so many older students, all of whom were better trained and more experienced, was somewhat intimidating.

Nothing and no one, however, intimidated Rose. She could have faced an entire legion of Nazi soldiers without flinching, and she wasn't bothered in the slightest by senior students.

Merrill, of course was white and trembling, Samantha was polished and smug, and Connie was her usual calm, steadfast self.

"Ah!" Ms. Lea, the upper-level voice instructor said, "The last of our cast is here. Ladies, if you would take your seats over there with the other junior-level students?"

They followed her pointing finger to seat themselves next with four young men. Samantha seemed to know most of them by name, but she declined to introduce them to the other girls, preferring to keep their attention on herself. Three of them were willing enough to ignore the others, but one, a strikingly handsome young man with bright blue eyes, dark wavy hair, and long, sensitive hands, turned to Merrill, who was closest to him.

"My name is Graham Giraud," he said. Even his voice was attractive—rich and full and mellow. "I don't believe we've met yet?"

Merrill blushed crimson and muttered something too low for any of them to catch. Rose leaned over.

"She's Merrill West," she informed Graham. "I'm Rose Greye, and this is Meggie Blythe and Connie Johnson. Samantha Kerr …" her eyes twinkled … "you know already."

The laugh lines around Graham's eyes deepened. "I have met Samantha, yes. So, what are you all going to be performing?"

"Merrill will be playing a piano solo—yes you will, dear heart, and you will do marvellously," Rose said firmly. "Meggie and I are going to sing, and Connie plays trumpet."

"French horn," Connie corrected.

Rose waved an airy hand. "Something brass. Sammy, of course, is a violinist."

"I, too, am a singer," Graham said. He looked toward the older students, crowding around Mr. Lea. "I understand that they are going to clump many of us younger ones together so as to get our performances out of the way and make room for all their solos. Perhaps I'll be able to sing a duet with one of you?"

"Not with me," Rose said bluntly. "I am terrible at singing with anyone else. I refuse to stay with them, and wander off and do my own thing, and spoil the song at the end by finishing a beat too late or too early. At least for solo singing my accompanist has to follow me, instead of me trying to keep pace with someone else!"

Graham smiled at Meggie. "You and I, then?"

"If they ask us," Meggie agreed. She looked more closely at Graham. She knew she hadn't seen his face before, but something about his name … "Where are you from, Graham?"

"Montreal," he answered. "And you?"

"Prince Edward Island," she said. Montreal … she didn't know anyone but Will in Montreal, so why did the name Giraud sound so familiar?

His face lit up. "You must be related to my mother's friend Diana Blythe Samuels!"

_This_ was unexpected. "You know Auntie Di?" Meggie gasped.

He shook his head. "I've never met her, but my mother speaks of her often. My mother is Tricia Giraud; she used to work with your aunt at the Home here in Toronto."

Meggie really gaped at that one. "I've met your mother!" she cried. "She came to visit Auntie Di a year or so ago. And you … yes, she told me she had a son who was around my age!"

He beamed. "Then you are the niece Mother came home and told _me_ about."

"What did she say?" Rose put in wickedly.

"Simply that Di's niece was one of the sweetest and most charming girls she'd ever met," Graham answered calmly.

Meggie blushed. Somehow, hearing those words from the mouth of this extraordinarily handsome and polished young man made her extremely self-conscious. "I must write to Auntie Di and tell her I met you," she said, struggling to sound composed.

"And I to Mother."

Ms. Lea called them all together at that moment, and Samantha managed to tear herself away from her three admirers long enough to walk forward with Meggie.

"I see you and Graham have met," she said smoothly.

"Yes," Meggie replied shortly.

"I'm so glad, I always like for my friends to know each other," with a heavy emphasis on the _friends_. "And Graham and I are _very_ good friends."

"That's nice for you," Meggie said.

"Yes … of course, it's nothing serious yet, as my parents don't want me to tie myself down too young, but as soon as I'm old enough …"

Meggie wasn't sure why Samantha was telling her this. She really couldn't care less who Samantha was involved with—although if Graham was as nice as he appeared, she felt bad for him, to be so taken in by Samantha's superficial good looks and cheap manners.

Meggie decided Samantha was just bragging, and dismissed the matter from her mind.

* * *

At the end of the rehearsal, Meggie and Graham were indeed singing a duet—_Over the Rainbow_, the song Judy Garland had made famous the previous year.

"It's the perfect war song," Mr. Lea informed the two. "It gives hope—that somewhere, there's a land of peace and happiness. I'll expect you two to practice it at least three times a week together, as you do not have the experience of the older students."

"That's fine, Ms. Lea," Graham told her with calm assurance.

Meggie nodded.

Rose was singing Gershwin's _The Man I Love_, its melancholy melody perfectly suited to her low, smooth voice. Merrill, protesting all the way, had been convinced to play Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_, while Connie was performing Handel's triumphant _Water Music_ with several other brass musicians. Samantha was playing something modern and popular on her violin; Meggie hadn't bothered to ask what, exactly.

Samantha caught up with Meggie just outside the auditorium, after Graham had scheduled a practice for the next morning before classes.

"Well!" she said, her silky voice having a bite to it, "I suppose you're quite pleased, to have landed that duet with Graham."

"I beg your pardon?" Meggie asked blankly.

Samantha gave her a coolly amused look. "Oh come now, darling. You can't pretend to have not noticed how gorgeous he is. Any girl would die to have to spend three days a week with him." She fluttered her eyelashes. "All alone in a small practice room …"

Even Meggie's innocence couldn't protect her from the innuendo. "How horrid!" she said indignantly. "I barely even know Graham."

Samantha patted her hand. "You can play your sweet little village girl act as much as you want, dear. _I_ won't give you away."

"It _isn't_ an act," Meggie protested. "I don't care two pins for Graham, or any other boy!"

Samantha smiled and nodded. "Of course," she said with a sly wink. "Just remember, even if he doesn't say anything about it, Graham is _my_ boyfriend."

"I don't care if he is dating Princess Elizabeth," Meggie said disdainfully. "I am not interested."

"Good." The bite was more noticeable in Samantha's voice with that word. She walked away, leaving Meggie bemused.

"What was that about?" she asked Rose.

Rose sounded pitying, though Meggie wasn't sure if the pity was directed toward her or toward Samantha. "Oh honey, isn't it obvious? She's jealous."

"But why? If she and Graham are seeing each other, why should she be jealous of me?"

Rose shook his head. "I don't know about her relationship with Graham—all I know is that he was _very_ attentive to you, my friend, and he is _very_ handsome and charming."

"It's all so silly," Meggie sighed.

"Maybe to you, but it is very serious to Sammy."

"Why? Why does she care so much about boys?"

Rose shrugged. "Maybe because that's how she's been raised. We weren't all blessed with your wholesome upbringing, honey. I don't think about boys, but I have Geoffy. You have your entire family, Merrill has her brothers … who does Sammy have?"

With which unanswerable conundrum she also left, leaving Meggie wondering if there was more to Samantha than met the eye.

* * *

Meggie felt unaccountably nervous as she awaited Graham in the practice room the next morning. She told herself it was ridiculous—but Samantha's suggestions and innuendos had made more of an effect on her than she could casually dismiss.

"Good morning," Graham said, entering the room.

Meggie tried to quell the sudden fluttering in her stomach. "Good morning," she responded simply.

Graham opened the sheet music and set it on the piano. "I'm no pianist, but I think I can pick out the melody enough for us to follow. Unless you'd rather play?"

"Oh no," Meggie said with a slight laugh. "I can play for others to sing, and I can sing if others play, but I've never been able to do both together."

Graham laughed as well. He had a singer's laugh—it started low and rolled richly out of him, filling the room with amusement. "Then I will do the accompanying, until we can get someone to play for us. Shall we begin?"

Meggie concurred, and the gently rocking opening notes filled the room.

The practice was a bit awkward at first, as they had to get used to each other's styles. Meggie preferred an uncomplicated approach to singing—no frills, no fuss. Though her instructors encouraged her to add vibrato to her style, she was still most comfortable imaging she was alone in the woods, singing a simple melody of joy.

Graham, on the other hand, was obviously an operatic singer. Ms. Lea had assured them that their two distinct styles, when blended, would produce a unique and lovely sound, but it was going to take some work to get to the point where they could complement each other, rather than sound as though they were competing.

"Well!" Graham said with a laugh as they ended. "I see now why Ms. Lea wants us to practice three times a week."

"She usually does know what she's talking about," Meggie agreed.

"Which is a good thing, seeing as how she's a teacher," Graham ended.

They looked at each other with twinkling eyes. In that moment of shared amusement, they became friends, simply and naturally, without even realizing it.

"What are your plans once you are done with your schooling?" Graham asked, holding the door for Meggie with unconscious courtesy.

She shrugged, feeling again the frustration of not knowing. "I'm not even sure I'm going to continue my schooling after this year," she said. "I might just go home and take care of Green Gables for Papa."

"Is that what you _want_ to do?" Graham asked shrewdly.

"It was," Meggie said. "It was all I ever wanted to do. Then I came here … and now I'm not so sure." She shook her head impatiently. "What about you, what are your plans?"

"Opera," Graham answered succinctly. "I want either to sing opera or compose it. Maybe even both."

"My word," Meggie said. "That sounds challenging, to say the least."

It was Graham's turn to shrug. "It's in my heart. It's what I was born to do. I'm sure it will be difficult, but I'll make a way."

Meggie envied him his confidence, his surety of purpose. What, she wondered, would it be like to know so certainly what you were meant to do?

"In fact," Graham continued, "Did you know that the song we're preparing—_Over the Rainbow_—borrows heavily from a song in Dvořák's opera _Rusalka_?"

"I did not know that," Meggie said.

Graham nodded. "Most popular music …" he began, before trailing off, grinning sheepishly. "Sometimes I think I should be a teacher. I can't help trying to instruct, no matter where I am or what I am doing,"

"Don't apologize," Meggie laughed. "My Uncle Carl does that, too, only about bugs. I'd much rather hear about music than the lifestyle of the African _Dorylus_ Ant."

Graham's rich laugh rolled out again, causing several nearby students to stop and turn, staring at the duo.

"I'd best get to my class," Graham said, leaning against the corridor wall. "Tomorrow morning, same time?"

Meggie shook her head. "I have a test tomorrow that I have to prepare for … it's in mathematics, and I don't want to disappoint Prof. Ashton by getting a poor grade."

"Day after tomorrow, then?"

"That should work."

Graham smiled at her. "I'll see you then."

He kissed the tips of his fingers to her as he walked away, causing Meggie first to blush, and then to wonder _why_ she was blushing.


	10. Rethinking School

Meggie quickly grew to look forward to her practices with Graham every other day. He was charming and witty to speak to, and he truly seemed to enjoy her company. He never mentioned Samantha's name, leaving Meggie to conclude that the other girl had been greatly exaggerating when she claimed they were seeing each other.

Despite Graham's good looks and good connections (Mr. Blair Giraud was son of Sara Giraud _nee_ Stanley, the famous actress), he wasn't a bit proud. The only times Meggie even remembered from what very different worlds they came were when he would casually mention something about, "Ah yes, that was the summer we were visiting Grandam in France," or "My little sister Sally is getting quite spoiled—Father bought her a pony for her last birthday, and she's already asking for another!"

Meggie couldn't quite imagine "jaunting" over to Europe to visit family, nor getting a pony at age four. Still, she liked Graham enormously, especially as he never made her feel like an ignorant country mouse, as Samantha continued to do.

"Oh really, darling, you're not going to wear that out, are you?" Samantha asked amusedly one afternoon as the foursome (plus Connie) was preparing to go to the movies.

"What's wrong with it?" Meggie asked, looking down at her simple spring coat. It was old, certainly, but still in very good condition.

"Dear child, it's at least three years out of date. Don't you have anything newer?"

Before Meggie could answer, Rose laughed. "Who cares about that? There's a war going on, Sammy. Aren't we all being encouraged to make do with what we have?"

Samantha sniffed. "Yes, but we don't need to look _shabby_."

Meggie really didn't care what Samantha thought about her fashion sense, but at the word "shabby" Connie flinched. She was dreadfully poor, and all of her clothes were second-hand and ill-made.

"What a person wears doesn't matter," Meggie said, slipping her arm through Connie's and walking out the door casually. "It's how you treat people that's important."

Samantha's light trill of laughter floated down the hallway after them. "You funny little thing!" she said.

Connie shook her head. "I know Rose has a heart big enough to love everyone in Toronto and Boston combined, but I don't see how she can put up with that silly twit."

And Meggie, though she would not say so aloud, could not help but agree.

"Never mind, girls," Merrill said quietly. She was walking just behind them, leaving Rose and Samantha to bring up the rear. "We have more to worry about than one annoying person."

Meggie reached back and looped her other arm through Merrill's, drawing the girl forward to walk in step with her and Connie. "You're right, of course. When our brothers and cousins and friends are over fighting for freedom, one annoying roommate does become insignificant."

Connie sighed. "You're both right—but it doesn't make it any easier when people make fun of me because of how I dress. I'd love to be able to dress like Samantha does—or even you two, who may not look as sophisticated as she does but at least have neat and clean clothing—but I simply cannot afford it, not if I want to continue through school. I try not to let it bother me, but sometimes …" she trailed off with a sigh.

Meggie squeezed her chum's arm. She wished she could do something to help. Unfortunately, a farmer's daughter did not have loads of money to spend on frivolities, any more than a poor scholarship student. Meggie wasn't poor, by any stretch of the imagination, but she was nowhere near as wealthy as, say, Graham Giraud, either.

"You always look well turned out," Connie continued to Merrill. "How do you manage it?"

Merrill smiled. "I like to sew, and with three older sisters I have plenty of cast-offs with which to work. I can take two of their dresses, rip them up, and use the fabric to make a completely new outfit for myself."

Connie sighed. "It must be nice to be talented in that direction. I'm a perfect dunce with a needle; I couldn't remake my wardrobe to save my life."

"I'll help you," Merrill offered. "This weekend, we can go through your clothes and see what we can do to make them up into some nicer outfits."

Connie beamed. "Merrill, you're a darling! If I ever get the chance to do something nice for you, I promise, I will."

"I'll help, too," Meggie said. "I'm not as good at sewing as Merrill, but I can do any plain seams that need stitching."

Connie sighed. "It's so nice to have friends."

It _was_ nice, Meggie thought. She had never had many friends outside her own family. She never thought she'd meet anyone she liked as well as her cousins, but her world had expanded greatly, and now she couldn't imagine her life without Rose, Merrill, and Connie. She suppressed a sigh at the thought of leaving in a few months.

She didn't know why it was such a gloomy idea—she ought to be thrilled about going home! So she _was_, to a certain extent—but oh, she couldn't deny that Avonlea seems awfully flat and stale compared to school.

She knew that if she asked Papa to let her stay for another year, he would agree. But then she thought about how much she missed him, and how hard it must be for him, all alone at Green Gables … she couldn't bring herself to ask. She couldn't be so selfish as to stay, just for her own pleasure. If she wasn't going to use an education, then it was a waste of her time and Grandmama's money to stay.

_Would_ she use it, though? That was the question that was currently plaguing her. Was she really going to be content to stay and keep house for Papa for the rest of her life, like she had planned when she was a little girl, or did she want to do something more?

She didn't know—but she was glad to stop thinking about it and settle back to watch Cary Grant charm everyone in _His Girl Friday_.

A girl would have to be bleak indeed to not find Cary Grant cheering.

* * *

_My dearest Meggie,_

_How are you, darling? Have you made many friends at school? I was delighted to hear that you are roommates with Rose Greye—the Greyes are some of the best people in Boston. Your grandfather and I have tea with the Greyes (your Rose's grandparents, naturally) every month. From all they say, she sounds a most charming girl, and a delightful friend for you to have._

_Have you thought at all about whether you would like to return to school next year? I know we agreed on only one year, but if you like it there, your grandfather and I want you to feel free to stay. I won't force you into this, my dear—ultimately, I just want you to be happy—but I also want to be sure you've thought this through._

_Your poor dear Mama's health was always very frail, even when she was your age. We had governesses and tutors in our house for her, but we were never able to give her the kind of education she wanted. She loved music as much as you do, dear Meggie, but her lungs were always too weak to allow her to develop her gift. She would get so tired, poor thing, just from sitting at the piano trying to practice. I really would have to force her to rest from it._

_She was so fond of literature and poetry, too; she and your grandfather used to discuss such things by the hour. Again, I had to break their tête-à-têtes up many evenings, or my dearest Cecily would stay up far too late and overtax her strength._

_I am not saying any of this to coerce you into staying at school, Meggie. I just want you to understand why it is so important to me that you have the opportunity for an education. I want to give to my beloved grandchildren what I could not give to my daughter._

_Let me know what you decide. Your grandfather and I will love you and be proud of you no matter what._

_With all my fondest love,_

_Grandmama Irving._

Meggie watched Matty's face as he finished reading her letter. The twins were at a tiny little café almost exactly halfway between their two schools. Ever since Uncle Ken left, and Aunt Rilla and the younger cousins had moved back to the House of Dreams, Meggie and Matty had taken to meeting at the café on Saturday morning for breakfast, followed by a long walk around the park. It wasn't much, but it was the best they could do.

"I had a letter from Grandmama, too," Matty said, setting the letter down on the table. "Same sort of thing—she didn't want to force me into staying at school, but it was important to her that I have the chance Mama didn't have … a lot of drivel about how sad Mama's life was."

"Drivel! Oh, Matty!" Meggie cried, half-laughing, half-horrified.

He grinned sheepishly. He had started to grow taller, though he would never be as tall as Peter or Blythe, and just in the last month, his voice had started cracking. The twins looked less alike than they ever had, but their hearts were as similar as ever.

"I shouldn't say that. I know Grandmama loved Mama, but I think that she smothered her. From the way everyone else talks about her—Grandfather, Auntie Di, Grandmother Blythe—she sounds like a happy, lovable person, who just happened to be a bit frail. But Grandmama acts as thought she was always a desperate invalid."

Meggie had to agree. She hadn't liked those phrases in Grandmama's letter, either: _"poor dear Mama," "so tired, poor thing."_ They sounded pitying and Meggie could not think of her mother as needing pity. "What do you think about what Grandmama said, though—besides the bit about Mama?"

Matty looked thoughtful. "I don't know. I am learning a lot here—more than I thought I would. And I have made some friends, finally. I wouldn't mind another year or two here—but I hate the thought of not being at Green Gables."

"Exactly," Meggie sighed. "If only we could have Green Gables _and_ school. And what would Papa do without us?"

Matty hesitated. "Maybe we should ask him."

"We couldn't do that! If he knew we were thinking about staying, he'd tell us to do what we wanted without worrying about him."

"I just—remember back when we were afraid he was going to marry Aunt Una?"

"Of course." Meggie smiled a bit at the recollection. Back the, it had seemed the end of the world.

"Remember how he told us to come to him whenever we were worried about something, without fear of how he would take it? He'd want to know, Meggie."

"We were just little kids then, Matty."

Matty grinned. "We're still kids, sis."

She laughed. "I suppose we are, really. It gets hard to remember that sometimes, when everyone around us is trying to make us act like adults."

"Well," Matty said practically, "Adults know that when they have to make a tough decision, they should talk to somebody wiser first. Papa's the wisest person we know, so we should talk to him about school."

Meggie found, as usual, Matty's logic to be irrefutable. "He and Auntie Di are coming out next month for our war effort concert. We can talk to him then."

"You don't want to write?"

Meggie shook her head. ""It would be too easy for him to write back encouraging us without really meaning it. If we _see_ him as we speak, we can read his face."

"Good thinking." Matty leaned back in his seat and drank some more of his milk. "So how are rehearsals for your concert?"

"Good." Meggie took a bite of her toast. "Graham and I have finally figured out how to blend our styles. Ms. Lea told us at the last group rehearsal that we were starting to sound very nice."

"Well, that's good."

"Yes. Now my only problem is Samantha."

Matty made a face. He knew all about Samantha from his sister. "What now? Is she still ragging on you about your clothes?"

Meggie shook her head. "No, she just keeps reminding me that Graham is _hers_—as if he was property or something! I keep telling her that we're just friends, but she doesn't believe me. I don't think she thinks it possible for a boy and a girl to _be_ just friends."

Matty watched his sister's face narrowly. "And are you just friends?"

To her credit, Meggie didn't blush. "I sometimes think that I do like him in a different way than any other boy," she said candidly. "Then I just laugh at myself. I think that all of Rose's talk about Geoffy, and Samantha's insistence on boys, and Dee's letters that she sends _every week_ telling me about her latest conquests have started to affect me. I don't want a boyfriend."

"But if you did …" Matty prompted.

This time, Meggie did blush. "If I did, Graham would be the one I would want," she admitted.

Matty nodded, seemingly satisfied. "That's one good thing about attending an all-boy's school," he said.

"What's that?"

"Less chance of getting caught up in pointless romances."

"So, there aren't any girls striving to win your heart, brother mine?" Meggie teased, glad to turn the conversation from her confusing feelings for Graham.

Matty snorted. "Not likely. Not with Gil parading around like he's Prime Minister."

Meggie giggled. It was such an accurate description of their cousin. "How is he, by the way?"

Matty planted his elbows on the table and stared into his milk. "Worried. He's worried about Uncle Ken, for one, and he's worried about Aunt Rilla and the children. Even though they're back near Grandmother and Granddad, he's worried that they need him. I think he's afraid for Aunt Rilla."

Meggie understood. Aunt Rilla had not spoken one word since Uncle Ken had announced he was leaving. She submitted to all the travel plans and new arrangements, but she refused to speak—not even to tell her husband goodbye.

"He said that both Granddad and Uncle Jem are keeping an eye on her—unobtrusively, of course, and either Grandmother, Aunt Faith, or Aunt Una go to see her every day. She's not any worse—but she's still not talking."

"Poor Aunt Rilla," Meggie said compassionately.

"Matt!"

The twins' heads swivelled in unison. Meggie saw a pleasant-looking young fellow enter the café with a girl on his arm.

"There you are, you old scoundrel," the newcomer said, slapping Matt on the back. "So this is where you disappear to every Saturday, eh?" He turned to his companion. "Blythe here is quite the mysterious chap, just vanishes without a word, shows up again at the end of the day, never tells us where he's been."

The girl giggled.

Matty's face settled into a blank expression. "Hullo, Rivers," he said. Meggie recognized his annoyance, but doubted the other two would be able to see it.

Nor did they. "Who's your girl?" Rivers asked.

"My sister, Meggie," Matty answered.

The other boy offered his hand. "Pleased to meet you," he said promptly. "My name's Sinclair Rivers. This," indicating the giggler, "is my cousin, Alma Rivers."

"_Pleased_ to meet you, I'm _sure_," Alma said to Matty, ignoring Meggie entirely.

Matty, who loathed gigglers, merely nodded.

"What say we join up for the day?" Rivers now suggested. "Matt, you can show us where you and your charming sister go every week, and Alma and I'll keep you company."

The twins managed to keep their extreme distaste at such a plan out of their faces, but their brown eyes met in mutual dismay.

"I'm so sorry," Meggie said, seeing her brother unable to concoct an excuse, "but we have something rather important to do today—family business. You will forgive us, won't you?"

"Oh!" cried Alma, clinging to Matty's arm as he tried to rise. "You _mustn't_ run off like this! Sinclair has told me _all_ about you; the _only_ reason I came to visit him today was so I could _meet_ you." She fluttered her lashes in his face.

"Terribly sorry," Matty stammered. "As Meggie said—family business—must leave—see you tonight, Rivers."

With that, the Blythe twins fled. Meggie broke down in a fit of giggles herself as soon as they were out of earshot.

"I thought you said you didn't have to worry about romances at your school," she gasped.

Matty still looked unnerved. "Good gosh, you don't think I'd like a girl like that, do you?" he said in disgust. "If I ever do get married—which I'm sure I will sometime down the road—a long, _long_ time down the road—it will be to somebody sensible. Not Sinclair Rivers' imbecile cousin!"

Meggie recovered herself. "He seemed fairly nice."

"Oh, Rivers isn't bad, I suppose. He's better than some of the chaps. That Alma girl visits him every week, though, and he's always trying to pawn her off on one of us fellows. Can't say that I really blame him—I'd try to get rid of her too, if she was my cousin."

"Oh Matty, what a dreadful thing to say."

"Wouldn't you?" Matty demanded.

"I suppose so," Meggie conceded. "But oh—Matty, I can't believe I told a fib just to get us out of there! Papa would be so ashamed of me."

"You didn't tell a fib," Matty protested. "We do have important family business. We need to figure out just how to tell Papa we might—not definitely, but possibly—want to stay at school for another year or two; we need to decide how we're going to write back to Grandmama without getting her hopes up that we're going to stay; we need to compare notes on Peter and Bran and Polly and see how they're all doing … we have loads of family business!"

Meggie laughed and slipped her hand into his. "Why, I suppose you're right."

The twins smiled chummily at each other. It was nice to be together, whether in Toronto or Avonlea.


	11. Growing Pains

"Where is my nail polish? Who used it?"

Samantha glared angrily at the other three girls.

Rose raised one eyebrow pointedly. "Sammy, dear, I only use pale pink, and Merrill and Meggie don't use polish at all. None of us are at all likely to have borrowed your red polish. You probably just misplaced it."

Samantha ignored her and continued to stare at Meggie, who was trying to ignore the chaos as they all prepared for the concert that evening.

"What did you do with it?"

"Are you asking me?" Meggie asked.

"Of course! You hid it, didn't you?"

"Why would I do that?" Meggie asked, genuinely bewildered.

Samantha stalked close and waved a vehement finger in front of Meggie's face. "Because you're jealous of me. You want Graham for yourself, and you're hoping that if you can make me look bad tonight, he'll break up with me."

Meggie's mouth dropped open at the ridiculous accusation.

"Sammy, be reasonable," Rose intervened, trying to lighten the situation with a laugh. "If Meggie wanted to make you look bad, she'd do far worse than steal your nail polish."

Both girls ignored her. "I would never stoop so low," Meggie said icily, "as to interfere with another girl's things, simply because I disliked her."

"Oh, we all know you are perfect and innocent and pure," Samantha sneered. "Everyone loves you, and you love everyone, and the rest of us are nowhere near as good as you are! You've been rubbing that in ever since you got here. Don't think you fool me—you've never fooled me. I know what you're really like under that sweet façade. And don't think I won't tell Graham, either! If you come between us, you will regret it."

"Are you threatening me?" Meggie blazed in righteous indignation. "How dare you say such things? You have no right!"

Samantha narrowed her eyes. "Are you disregarding my warning?"

"Graham and I are just friends, but I will not let anyone dictate how I live my life! If he asks me to be his girlfriend, I will answer as _I_ want, not as _you_ want." Meggie's italics were laced with scorn. She had never been so angry, not even when Samantha had tried to use her to flirt with Peter and Bran. "I have never done anything to you to deserve such treatment—I even apologized the one time I spoke badly! You are a mean-spirited, narrow-minded, selfish, shallow girl, and I hope Graham _does _see through you, because he deserves far better!"

Samantha faltered before the onslaught. "I hate you," she said in a low voice. "I _hate_ you!"

With that, she whirled around and rushed out of the room.

The other three girls looked at each other in stunned silence as the door's bang died off into echoes. Merrill looked close to tears, while Rose's face was suddenly inscrutable.

Meggie's anger slowly faded; her crimson cheeks paled back to their usual pink. She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself for speaking so to Samantha. True, the other girl had said unforgivable things, but she, Meggie, ought to have had enough self-control not to react to them as she had.

"I'm sorry," she said into the silence. "Merrill—please don't cry. I'm sorry. I'll go apologize to Samantha."

Rose caught her arm as she turned to go. "Don't," she said warningly.

"Why not?"

Rose shook her head. "Meggie, how much do you really know about Samantha?"

Meggie thought. "Not much at all," she confessed.

"Her mother was once about as poor as anyone could be. She was ill-bred, too, but very beautiful, and she caught the eye of Samuel Kerr, eldest son of one of Toronto's wealthiest men.

"They married, against his family's wishes, and Samantha was born a year later. By that point, her mother's beauty had started to fade, and she and Samantha's father were beginning to realize how little they suited each other. They fought constantly for the next five years—that was all Samantha ever heard from them—until one day, her mother just left. Walked out.

"Samuel Kerr gave his daughter to his mother to raise—he said, in her hearing, that he wanted nothing more to do with her ever. Samantha has spent the last ten years in her grandmother's house, never seeing her father, with no idea of where her mother is, and being constantly reminded that she has, as far as her father's family is concerned, tainted blood."

Meggie felt sick to her stomach. Merrill had tears streaming down her face.

Rose sighed and sat down on Meggie's neat bed. "Sammy knows that the only way she can gain any respect from her grandmother—who scrupulously takes care of her physical needs, so that to the world she bears no reproach—is to marry into a good family. That's what she is doing here. Violin, though she loves it and if good at it, is only an excuse. She needs a husband.

"Graham is wealthy, and both his mother and father come from impeccable families. Samantha has hoped to catch his eye ever since the year started. She thought this concert might be the way … until you and Graham had the duet, and he started showing interest in you, Meggie."

Meggie slid down onto the floor next to her bed and leaned her head against Rose's knee. "I am utterly ashamed of myself."

Rose patted her head. "Don't blame yourself too much, dear. Sammy is fiercely proud. She doesn't want anyone to know—and if either of you tell her I betrayed her confidence like this, I'll tear your eyes out!"

Rose's ferocious tone was a welcome relief to the tragic story they had just heard, and both Meggie and Merrill giggled a little.

"How do you know all this, Rosy?" Merrill asked wonderingly, wiping her eyes with a linen handkerchief.

Rose shrugged. "People tell me things, _I_ don't know why."

"I thought you told us you can't keep secrets," Meggie reminded her.

"Ordinary secrets, no, but something like this …" Rose shook her head. "I'd be a beast not to keep this one."

"What can I do to make it up to her?" Meggie asked.

"Don't let her suspect you pity her," Rose warned. "Sammy will hate you all the more for that. Just—try to be a little nicer to her. You _have_ always shown her how much you disapprove of her."

"I didn't know," Meggie murmured, not as an excuse, but merely out of the fullness of her heart.

"I know, but Sammy just thought that you looked down on her like everyone else, and she saw your loving family and it made an even greater contrast with hers, and so then she stiffened toward you and only showed her worst side, which made you even colder toward her, and it just grew and grew. I hated seeing it," Rose concluded helplessly. "But what could I do?"

"It certainly isn't your fault," Meggie said. "You are kind toward everyone. I should have been better."

"What's past is past," Merrill said comfortingly. "We'll just have to try to be nicer to Samantha now."

"You mean I will," Meggie corrected. She smiled ruefully at her two friends. "Instead of thinking about myself and how much I missed my family, I should have paid more attention to you two, and the way you treat people. We Blythes—we tend to get wrapped up in ourselves and our family, and think that anyone born outside is automatically at a disadvantage." As she spoke, she wondered, not how she knew such things, but how she had never seen them before. "We're too proud; we think too highly of ourselves. Just being born as part of our family doesn't make us special, it's how we treat people. And I—I don't think I've been treating people very well for a while, now."

"Don't be too harsh," Rose said, petting her again. "It's not like you've been a perfect shrew. And we're not exactly perfect, either—well, maybe Merrill is, but _I'm_ not."

"Oh Rose," Merrill protested.

Meggie laughed and felt better. "I'll apologize to Samantha for speaking as I did the first chance I get," she said. "And first …" she checked the clock. "I need to run a quick errand."

"We have to be at the concert hall in an hour!" Rose warned.

"I know," Meggie said. "I won't be long."

Before either girl could remonstrate further, she snatched her hat and shoulder bag and was out the door.

* * *

To Meggie's great joy, Samantha was alone in the room when she returned. The older girl looked immaculate as usual, despite her unpolished nails, but Meggie saw the telltale signs of tears hidden underneath the powder on her face.

Samantha flushed as soon as Meggie entered, but her habit of pride served Meggie well, for rather than rushing out, she remained before her mirror, brushing her hair and ignoring the Island girl.

Meggie began slowly; she didn't want to say the wrong thing by rushing. "Samantha," she said. "I owe you a great apology—not only for my behaviour today, which was inexcusable, but for my rudeness to you ever since we met. You were right—I have been judging you from the beginning. I was very wrong."

Samantha deigned no reply, but her eyes met Meggie's in the mirror.

"I was so afraid, when I arrived here, that all the other girls were going to look down on me for being a farm girl, and for being from Prince Edward Island instead of a grander province. When I saw you, you seemed to match all my preconceived ideas about what the girls here were going to be like that I just assumed you were going to despise me—and so I began to despise you, without ever giving you a chance."

Samantha had abandoned all pretence of brushing her hair. She turned around so that she was facing Meggie, but she still said nothing.

At least she wasn't pretending nothing was wrong, like last time. Meggie was grateful for that. "As for today," she said, getting to the end of her speech, "I really have no excuse. I was angry at what you said, but that still cannot justify my response. I am very, very sorry, and I hope someday you can forgive me."

She held out a small package. "Here."

Samantha took it tentatively. "I don't know what to say," she said with an attempt at her careless laugh.

Meggie indicated the package. "Just open it."

Samantha did so. The brown paper fell away to reveal a small bottle of crimson nail polish. Samantha looked up at Meggie.

"I didn't take the other," Meggie said, "But I hoped this would serve as a sort of peace offering."

"I know you didn't take it," Samantha said, staring at the bottle in her hand. "I remembered after I left. I used the last of it two days ago and forgot to replace it."

Meggie guessed that was as close as she was going to get to being forgiven.

"You ought to get ready," Samantha said, changing the subject. "You want to look your best tonight. Aren't some of your family coming?"

"They are," Meggie said simply, pulling her navy blue skirt and white middy blouse off their respective hangers.

"Is that—" Samantha began, then caught herself. "I know you don't care very much about clothes," she said instead, "but if you would like to borrow one of my blouses, I don't mind."

Meggie recognized that as a peace offering, and accepted it. She was just as happy to not have to wear her old middy blouse, anyway—even she could now recognize that the style was too young for her.

"Thank you," she said, taking the soft ruffled blouse. "I'll try not to spill anything on it."

"It's an old one," Samantha said with a momentary resumption of her haughty attitude.

"It's lovely," Meggie said honestly.

Samantha shrugged. "My grandmother picks out all my clothes," she said. "I don't really care about any of them."

"What sort of styles do _you_ like?" Meggie asked, finishing buttoning the blouse and slipping into her navy flats.

Samantha looked surprised. "I don't know. I've never really thought about it before."

"You should talk to Graham's mother," Meggie suggested. "She came to visit Auntie Di a couple of years ago, and I thought she was very stylish."

"Your _aunt_ knows Mrs. Giraud?" Samantha asked in wonder.

"Yes, they worked together at my aunt's Orphan Home before Mrs. Giraud married Mr. Giraud. I think that's one of the reasons they adopted Graham—Mrs. Giraud had such fond memories of the Home."

Samantha stopped painting her nails. She stared at Meggie. "Graham is adopted?"

"Yes, didn't you know?"

Samantha shook her head. "Are you certain?"

"Yes; Mrs. Giraud mentioned it when she visited Auntie Di. I don't think they've ever tried to hide it. Hasn't Graham ever told you?"

"No. I never would have … But he is born well, isn't he? His birth parents, they were well-established and wealthy, weren't they?"

"I don't think I've ever heard about his birth parents," Meggie said. "I just know that both Auntie Di and Mrs. Giraud made a habit of taking in children nobody else wanted."

Samantha didn't say anything else until they were both dressed and heading down the stairs toward the concert hall. Then she said,

"Since you were so good as to apologize to me, I feel I ought to tell you—Graham and I aren't as serious as I might have led you to believe. In fact we—well, he isn't really my boyfriend at all."

Meggie couldn't stop the smile that quirked up the corners of her lips. "I was beginning to wonder why he never said anything about you, even though he knew we were roommates."

Samantha smiled slightly at that. "So," she said, with the air of one bestowing a great favour, "if you want to be his girlfriend, I won't stand in your way."

"He hasn't asked me, but thank you," Meggie said.

She couldn't figure out what had caused Samantha's change of heart toward Graham until she recalled their conversation regarding his origins. If Samantha needed to marry someone of good family in order to gain her family's respect, a poor boy adopted into a good family would not gain as much prestige as one born wealthy.

Meggie felt a little irritated at Samantha's shallowness at first. Then she thought of Rose's tale again, and realized she was in no place to judge.

She had been doing too much judging already.


	12. Hawk

The concert went amazingly well. Not only did ticket sales far exceed what Ms. Lea and the senior students had hoped, several wealthy attendees gave large donations to the war effort afterward. Ms. Lea's prize student had given an impassioned plea on behalf of the countries the Nazis were invading, and people responded well.

For Meggie, even better than hearing the thunderous applause for her duet with Graham was seeing the pride on her father and aunt's faces as she took her bow.

The four of them—Shirley, Auntie Di, Matty and Meggie—had ice cream together after the concert. Shirley and Auntie Di had to rush back to Avonlea on the morning train, so this was their last chance to spend time together.

"It was too short," Meggie mourned, scraping her dish free of any lingering remains of ice cream. "I barely got to see you at all. Yesterday you were visiting Matty, and today I was busy getting ready for the concert, and then performing."

"I wish we had more time," Shirley said sympathetically. "We really shouldn't have come at all, but we had to see our girl perform."

Meggie flushed with pleasure. "I know I shouldn't complain. I'm just glad you were here for a little while, anyway."

"Your Uncle Patrick will be so proud," Auntie Di said. "He wanted to come too, but he couldn't get away from the farm." She ruffled her fingers through her new pageboy—Meggie couldn't get over how sophisticated her aunt looked! "It was marvellous to come, though, and get our minds off our boys for a little while."

"Peter said not to worry if I didn't hear from him for a bit," Meggie said. "He said they were going into France and Belgium, and he wouldn't be able to get any letters out for a while."

"Going into the area the Germans are most fiercely attacking, and he says not to worry," Auntie Di murmured. "What a boy!"

Shirley patted her hand. "Peter is strong and brave, Di. He'll be just fine. And so will Bran."

Auntie Di smiled gallantly. "I know! At least I have Patrick to help keep my spirits up—unlike poor Rilla."

"How is Aunt Rilla?" Matty asked. "And Aunt Betsy?"

"Betsy is a pillar of strength," Auntie Di said. "Faith says she is the admiration of the Glen for her leadership of the local Red Cross and her unwavering faith in Bruce. Rilla—she's starting to improve. Teddy climbs into bed with her in the morning, and she'll talk with him and tell him stories, but she's still refusing to talk to anyone else."

"How are Anna and Ally?" Meggie asked, aching with sympathy for her cousins.

"Spending most of their time at Ingleside," Auntie Di said. She shook herself slightly. "Goodness, what are we doing, maundering on about such gloomy topics! Let's talk about something cheerful—how are you both liking school? Will we be keeping you at home after this summer, or are you coming back here in the fall?"

The twins exchanged a quick glance, and their father noticed it.

"What is it, you two?"

Meggie was glad that Matty took it upon himself to answer.

"We were both thinking that it might not be a bad idea to stay for one more year. We're not positive yet that we want to—we both miss home—but since we have this opportunity, we thought we maybe shouldn't waste it."

Meggie watched her father's face closely. His brown eyes flickered in surprise, but she could detect no concealed hurt in his expression.

"Well, there's no question but that we'd miss you terribly," he said, while Auntie Di wisely said nothing, "But you might be right: if you give up this chance to further your education, you might not get another. And an education is a valuable thing, no matter what you do with your life."

"If you'd rather we come home, we won't regret it," Meggie hastened to assure him.

Shirley smiled. "My Meggie, always so concerned about other people's feelings."

Not always, Meggie said silently, thinking of Samantha.

Shirley continued. "I want you two to do what you want, without worrying about me. Just because the army requisitioned the airplane I used to use for long journeys doesn't mean I can't make a few trips to Toronto once in a while. We'll still have all summer together, and Christmas, and we could ever swing the expense for you to come home for spring break, if any of us can't stand it. If you want to stay, we can write to your grandparents and tell them tomorrow."

"Rachel Irving will be delighted," Auntie Di said _sotto voce_.

Again, Meggie and Matty exchanged glances. Matty nodded, and Meggie turned to her father.

"Then … I guess we'll stay. For at least one more year."

"One year at a time, we'll take it as it goes," Shirley said placidly. He smiled. "I'm proud of you two."

"For staying?" Matty asked in surprise.

"No, for looking beyond your immediate desires to see that something might have future benefit. Not everyone can do that, and I'm proud of you for taking this step." His voice grew slightly husky. "And I love you very much."

Meggie choked back tears, and even Matty's smile looked a little watery.

"We love you too, Papa."

"Well, this is no good," Auntie Di said briskly, wiping at her eyes. "I thought we were supposed to be cheerful! I think we need more ice cream."

The night ended with laughter instead of tears, and Meggie and Matty were able to see their loved ones off the next morning with relatively light hearts.

"He wasn't upset," Meggie said.

"No," Matty agreed.

"Not even a little and pretending not to mind."

"No."

"Like he said, we'll still have the summer and Christmas. It won't be so bad."

"No."

Meggie turned and stared at her twin. He was being remarkably uncommunicative, even for him. "What's wrong?"

Matty faced her sturdily. "I thought you said you didn't want a boyfriend."

Meggie blinked at this unexpected statement. "I don't."

"Then what is with that Graham fellow?"

"Why does everyone think I'm interested in Graham!" Meggie cried.

"The way you looked at each other last night. It's the way Polly looks when anyone talks about Pierre."

"Pierre Ford?" Meggie was nonplussed. "Matty, her crush on him was ages ago."

Matty shook his head. "Just because I don't say much doesn't mean I don't see things. Polly gets this look in her eyes whenever anyone mentions Pierre. That's just the way you look when anyone talks about Graham, or when you're with him."

Meggie stilled the indignant denial on the edge of her tongue. "I do like Graham," she confessed reluctantly. "He is charming, and kind, and clever, and he treats me … well, this sounds silly, but he treats me like I'm a valuable treasure or something."

"I think you're valuable," Matty said.

"I know, but you're my twin. Nobody outside my family—certainly no _boy_ outside my family—has ever treated me like that."

"Just because you're flattered doesn't mean you're in love," Matty said shrewdly.

Meggie blushed. "I'm not in love! I just—I think _he's_ special, and he acts as though he thinks _I'm_ special, and …" she trailed off, her cheeks fiery.

Matty sighed. "If I'd known coming to school would mean I'd lose you, I never would have agreed to it."

"What do you mean?" Meggie put her hand on Matty's sleeve, appalled. "Matty—you aren't losing me! No matter what happens, no matter who I like or dislike, nobody will ever mean more to me than you do. And if you really don't want me to be friends with Graham, I'll never talk to him again."

"You'd do that for me?"

Meggie had no hesitation at all. "Of course."

Matty suddenly grinned. "No, I don't want you to do that. I'm just being stupid … jealous. I didn't much like it when you and Johnny got to be friends, either, at first, but now he's my best mate—or would be, if I knew where he was. Go ahead with Graham, Meg. I don't mind."

"Really?" Meggie pressed.

Matty nodded.

Meggie wondered at the excited flutter that arose in her stomach at that. Maybe … just maybe she was ready for a boyfriend, after all.

* * *

The next morning, Graham casually joined Meggie and Matty after church.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked politely.

Matty gave Meggie a knowing grin, and Meggie felt the flutter in her stomach again.

"No," Matty answered. "I have to head back to school anyway."

"Oh." Graham looked genuinely disappointed. "I was hoping both of you would have dinner with me. I know it's short notice, but I didn't get a chance to ask you last night after the concert, and my aunt always told me to bring anyone I wanted over, so …"

Matty cut him short. "I can wait to go back, if you really want me," with another mischievous glance at his sister. "As long as I get Sunday dinner somewhere, it doesn't matter if it is at school or elsewhere."

Graham smiled, appearing pleased. "Good! And you, Meggie?"

Meggie nodded mutely.

Graham indicated a streetcar. "Then shall we go?"

He continued to speak to Matty once they were riding toward the fashionable part of the city. "Meggie speaks of you often, and I've been wanting to get to know you. Mother has told me so many stories about working with Mrs. Samuels—I feel as though I've stepped into a living storybook, getting to know her family."

"Auntie Di has told us all about your mother, too," Matty said. "Sometimes we feel like we know all the children from the Home."

Graham smiled. "I never lived in the Shirley-Stedman Home. Mother and Father took me out of a different one—one that was nowhere near as well-run as your aunt's. I was just old enough to remember it, and I've never quite forgotten living there."

The two boys chatted amiably for the entire ride. Meggie felt her romantic hopes slowly wither away. Of course Graham wasn't interested in her! He was the wealthy son of Blair Giraud, himself son to Sara Stanley, one of Canada's most famous actresses. He just wanted to be friends, and that was why he had invited them both to dinner—so that she wouldn't think otherwise. Meggie blushed, thinking she must have somehow inadvertently revealed to Graham that she liked him, that he was taking this way of politely letting her down.

At least he and Matty were getting along.

They exited the streetcar and walked a few blocks to Lakeside Gardens. Meggie remember that Jane's family lived here. She realized guiltily that she hadn't written to Jane for several weeks—concert preparations had taken over so much of her life. She vowed to write to Jane that very evening, once she returned to school.

"Aunt Alice lives here," Graham said, entering the walkway toward a charming large house.

Meggie had never seen a large house be charming, before. Stately, yes. Grand, imposing, even beautiful. Graham's aunt's house, though was decidedly charming, with cream walls and dark red shutters and trim, and several front windows that winked jollily at one. The house invited you, seemed to want you, welcomed you as its own.

"What a sweet place!" she exclaimed, forgetting her embarrassment.

Graham smiled approvingly. "I knew you'd feel it! Most people just call it 'quaint' or old-fashioned, but some recognize its charm I knew _you_ would."

Meggie had to sternly remind herself that Graham only wanted her as a friend.

"It reminds me of Echo Lodge," Matty said, "Even though the two don't look anything alike."

"Where is Echo Lodge?" Graham asked. "It sounds delightful."

"Graham Giraud!" A beautiful voice floated out the front door. "Are you going to keep your guests on my front walk all day, or do I get to meet them sometime?"

Graham laughed. "Coming, Aunt Alice!"

A tall woman with dark curls, a wide red smile, and an ageless face met them at the door. "Welcome to Audley Court," she said.

"Aunt Alice, this is Meggie and Matt Blythe," Graham said. "This is my Aunt Alice Giraud."

"I'm so pleased to meet Hawk's friends," Miss Giraud said. "Please, come in."

"Hawk?" Meggie asked Graham.

"My nickname. I was born Graham Hawck—H-a-w-c-k." He looked oddly unsure of himself for a moment. "I'd be honoured if you would use it—if you want."

Meggie willed the stomach flutters to submission. "I'd be pleased to."

"Now," Miss Giraud said, "You must call me Aunt Alice, or Miss Alice if you insist of being formal, but I refuse to go by Miss Giraud. It makes me feel positively ancient. And you are Blythes? From Avonlea or Glen St. Mary?"

"Avonlea," Meggie answered. "How did you know?"

"I recognized the Island accent, and you Blythes are almost as well known as the Penhallows and Darks—or the Kings, my mother's family. Besides, my Aunt Felicity lives in Avonlea. You must know her—Mrs. Reverend Craig?"

"Of course!" Meggie cried. "I didn't know you were related to the Craigs," she said to Graham.

He shrugged. "Father has so many relatives—I can't keep them all straight."

"Aunt Felicity is my mother's cousin," Miss Alice explained. "Hawk's grandmother's. Let's see, Hawk, that would make her your … well, I don't really know. It doesn't matter, anyway: in the King family, everyone is either aunt, uncle, or cousin."

"The Blythes are that way, too," Matty told her.

Miss Alice winked. "I think it's easier that way, don't you? Now, you must come and eat dinner while it's hot."

"Can't I help with anything?" Meggie asked.

Miss Alice shook her head. "How thoughtful of you to offer! No thank you, Meggie, you three just sit and wait. I'll have it on the table in a flash."

Hawk grinned. "Aunt Alice takes a bit of getting used to. I love living with her, but she does leave a person breathless at first meeting."

They had a very enjoyable dinner. Miss Alice seemed just like one of them, interested in all their school doings and activities. She had been at the concert the previous night, and predicted a wildly successful career for Meggie.

"I don't know about that," Meggie said modestly.

"I'm sure of it, my dear! Perhaps you will star in one of the operas Hawk is going to write someday."

Meggie tried not to look at Hawk, but she couldn't help it. He was staring intently at her. "I think that's an excellent idea, Aunt Alice," he said seriously. "Meggie, promise me you'll sing for me when I write you an opera?"

Matty choked and hid his face behind a napkin. Meggie discovered she was speechless again, and nodded mutely.

After a delicious dinner of raspberry _sorbet_, Meggie and Matty had to depart.

"Do come again next week," Miss Alice pled. "Hawk never brings friends out, and we get so bored, just the two of us day after day."

"Yes, do come," Hawk echoed.

Matty grinned. "Count on it."

"I'll walk you back to the 'car stop," Hawk said.

"Oh, you don't need to do that," Meggie protested.

He just smiled, and Meggie found she couldn't protest any longer. Matty grinned again, and ever so casually dropped a few steps behind the two of them as they walked, much to Meggie's annoyance. What if Graham—Hawk—thought that she had asked Matty to leave them alone?

She was so busy fretting and fuming that she barely responded to any of Hawk's conversational overtures, and finally he fell silent. Then she was afraid she had been rude, and tried to start up a conversation herself. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of anything relevant to say, and after a few lame starts and fumbles, she fell silent as well.

"I go this way," Matty said, swinging up on the first streetcar that rumbled to a stop. "Thanks for dinner, Hawk. It was nice to get to know you and meet your aunt."

"Our pleasure," Hawk said easily. "See you next Sunday."

The streetcar faded into the distance, and Meggie and Hawk were left alone once more.

"You must have enjoyed seeing your father last night," Hawk said, finally breaking their silence.

"Oh yes," Meggie said, comfortable with this topic, anyway. "I'm enjoying school far more than I had originally expected, but I still miss Papa dreadfully. It was so nice of him and Auntie Di to come for the concert."

"My mother had hoped to come, since Father is on a business trip and couldn't, but Sally got sick at the last minute, and Mother didn't want to leave her."

Meggie looked at him with sympathetic eyes. "I'm sorry you didn't get to see them."

He smiled down at her warm face. "Thank you. I have it easier than you, though. At least I get to live with Aunt Alice, and not at school."

Meggie couldn't seem to think of a response that didn't sound inane, and so they fell silent again. Finally, just before Meggie's streetcar pulled up, Hawk asked abruptly if she was busy after school the next day.

"No," Meggie said nervously.

Hawk's fists clenched briefly. He forced them open. "Then—would you like to go to the movies with me? And maybe have an ice-cream soda afterward?"

Meggie blushed vividly. "You mean—like a date?"

He laughed, his confidence returned now that the crucial question was out. "Yes, exactly like a date."

Meggie swallowed. "Why—yes, yes, I would."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then."

He handed her up onto the 'car. Meggie sank into a seat breathlessly, her mind whirling. A date! With Hawk! He really did like her, then—it wasn't all her imagination.

"Oh no," she suddenly gasped, sitting bolt upright. "What am I going to _wear_?"


	13. First Date

If Meggie hadn't already been thankful she and Samantha had come to a truce, she would most certainly have been so now. When she rushed into their room Sunday afternoon, panic-stricken, the three girls leaped into action. Samantha immediately began taking clothes out of her closet for Meggie to try on, while Rose, mourning the difference between their figures which made it impossible for her to share outfits, tore through her accessories to find earrings and a bracelet for Meggie. Merrill, the neat-fingered, looked through Samantha's fashion magazines to find a hairstyle she could use on Meggie.

"Am I making too big of a deal over this?" Meggie asked, pausing in the midst of wriggling into one of Samantha's dresses. She blushed. "It's not like he proposed marriage or anything."

"A girl cannot make too big a deal over her first date," Rose instructed didactically. "That is, unless it is with a young man to whom she has been betrothed since birth. Then it doesn't matter." She winked. "In your case, however, you have to look perfect—but not too perfect. You want to look stunning without appearing to have spent any time getting there."

"I don't think I can keep up with this," Meggie said. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. "I love this crimson colour, Samantha, but I think it's a bit too much for an afternoon at the movies."

Samantha placed one slender finger along her cheek. "I agree," she said decisively. "I have a skirt in that colour, though. Merrill, darling, could you help me find it? Crimson doesn't work well with my colouring, so it might be tucked in the back somewhere."

Merrill obligingly dropped the magazines and dove into the closet.

"Wait!" Rose cried, pouncing on a laurel green dress lying in a crumpled heap on the bed. She lifted it up and shook out the rayon fabric. "This is perfect," she said in satisfaction. "After all, it is spring. Crimson would work if this was September, but for May, this soft green is just right."

Samantha pursed her lips critically. "Try it on," she ordered Meggie, who struggled out of the crimson gown and slipped on the green dress.

"Perfect!" Rose said.

"Absolutely," Samantha agreed.

Merrill same back into the main room. "Oh, Meggie," she said softly.

Meggie looked at her reflection in the mirror. The dress's square neck and off-centre front closure did suit her determined chin and long neck, while the soft, dark green complemented her brown eyes and pink cheeks perfectly.

"It's lovely," she said smoothing her hands down the silky skirt. "Are you sure it isn't too nice?"

"I never wear it," Samantha said. "The square neck makes my face look fat. You may have it, if you like," she offered magnanimously. She ruffled through the piles left on her bed and pulled out a matching belt. "Here."

She buttoned it around Meggie's trim waist. "Now all you need is a hat and shoes, and something done to your hair."

Merrill showed them a picture of Loretta Young with her hair in soft curls. "This is what I was thinking."

Rose pulled out a broad-brimmed light camel hat and matching shoes. "I think our feet are close enough to the same size, Meggie, that you can wear these."

"I can't wear heels!" Meggie gasped.

Samantha laughed. "Of course you can; everyone does. It's time you grow up, Meggie dear. You can't go on a date wearing a sailor suit and mary janes."

Meggie tried the shoes on dubiously. Although she wobbled a bit at first, she soon got the knack of walking in them, and she was amazed at how much more mature she did indeed look in the elegant dress and stylish heels and hat.

"I can't thank you girls enough," she said, flinging her arms around Merrill, who was closest.

Rose laughed. "You'd do the same for us if we needed help! Besides, the next best thing to going on a date myself is helping someone else get ready for one."

Samantha moved to her vanity. "Now, a little makeup …" she mused.

"I draw the line at makeup," Meggie said. "I don't care if that makes me provincial or immature or anything, but no makeup."

"Not even a little powder to make your nose less shiny?" Samantha cajoled.

Meggie sighed. "All right, powder. Nothing else, though!"

As Meggie lay in bed that night, happily anticipating her date tomorrow, she couldn't help but feel a tinge of melancholy. Most girls, she supposed, would have their mother's help for a first date. Not for the first time, Meggie wondered what Cecily would have thought about all this … her children going away to school, her daughter growing up and falling (maybe) in love, her nephews going off to war. Meggie closed her eyes and saw the face she knew only from her dreams. The dark blue eyes were warm with love and affection, and the sweet-lipped mouth, so like Matty's, smiled joyously. Pure happiness radiated from Cecily's face, and Meggie smiled in the dark, somehow sensing that her mother was there, after all, helping her through this strange new part of her life.

* * *

Meggie was completely useless during classes on Monday. Professor Ashton noticed her dreamy eyes and far-off gaze and put aside the hopes he had allowed to bloom for his Will. He had seen the way young Giraud treated Meggie, as well as her blushes every time he was near. He supposed a poor seminary student like Will could have little chance against the handsome son of the wealthy Girauds.

Meggie was blissfully unaware of her favourite professor's crushed matchmaking scheme. All she could think about was her date. As soon as classes were over, she and the other four girls (for Connie was in on the romance by now) dashed back upstairs to their room to prepare for the momentous occasion. Merrill immediately got to work brushing and pinning Meggie's curls, while Samantha powdered her nose and attempted to add a little colour to her lips. Meggie staunchly refused that, but while she was arguing with Samantha, Connie and Rose each grabbed a hand and began applying pale pink nail polish.

"I don't need polish!" Meggie wailed.

"He'll barely notice," Rose said, buffing away. "This is just to make you feel daring."

"I don't want to feel daring," poor Meggie said.

Rose winked audaciously. "Maybe not now."

Finally, the girls declared Meggie ready to go. She stood before them as they anxiously inspected her from her be-hatted and elegantly coiffed head to her high-heeled feet.

"She'll do," Connie declared.

"Yes, I do believe you shan't disgrace us," Rose said. "Have a good time, child, and don't stay out too late."

"Have fun, Meggie," Merrill said.

Samantha said nothing, but at the last minute she added a scented handkerchief to Meggie's handbag and smiled shyly.

Meggie kissed her hand to all of them and ran downstairs, out to the front courtyard, where Hawk was waiting. As she approached him, tall and handsome in brown trousers and a navy blue sports' coat, she suddenly felt shy. In all her preparations to look nice, she had completely forgotten about having to _talk_ to him. She should have asked Rose and Samantha for tips on how to talk to a boy on a date!

Her tongue felt enormous in her suddenly dry mouth as Hawk smiled at her. "Ready to go?"

She nodded mutely.

He offered her his arm, and they strolled off, unaware of the four pairs of eyes that watched them go from an upstairs window.

"Aunt Alice was very glad to meet you—both you and Matty," Hawk said easily.

"She was very nice," Meggie managed.

"She's my favourite aunt—although don't tell my other aunts that! Auntie Fel and Aunt Livvie are very sweet, good aunts, but Aunt Alice is something special. Her twin brother, my Uncle Jasper, used to live next door to her, but he died five years ago."

"How sad," Meggie said inanely, and wished she could kick herself.

"Family tradition has it that twins are always supposed to die on the same day—at the same moment. Aunt Alice broke tradition, though. She said she was sure Jasper would want her to go on living and enjoying life for the both of them, and that's what she's done."

Meggie tried to imagine living in the world without Matty, and failed. "She must be very brave," she said softly.

Hawk looked pleased to have finally gotten a genuine response. "She is. She was so pleased you agreed to go with me today. She said she would not have guessed I'd find such a sweet girl here in the city."

Meggie, who had started to relax with thinking about Matty, was overcome with shyness once more. Hawk continued, oblivious to her distress.

"Mother and Father will like you, too. Actually, Mother already does! I keep forgetting that you two met. Father's a lot like Aunt Alice, though not quite as lively, so I know he'll think you're marvellous." He smiled warmly at her.

Meggie felt oddly frozen. Hawk was talking as though they were already serious! Truly _courting_, as Papa would have called it! She half expected him to go home and write a letter to Papa, asking for her hand. Although she liked Hawk enormously, she didn't think she was ready for quite that serious of a relationship yet—after all, she was only fifteen!

"Here we are," Hawk said, drawing her attention to the cinema. Meggie was glad to go in and watch Joan Fontaine and Laurence Olivier in the chilling but fascinating _Rebecca_.

"Goodness!" she said afterward, shivering a little as they walked to the drugstore. "I've never seen anything so creepy in my life!"

"It was intense," Hawk agreed. "It made me think of a good musical theme for my opera." He began humming under his breath.

Meggie waited respectfully until he was finished, and then asked, "Do you only compose opera, or do you write other music as well?"

"Only opera. I have no ear for popular tunes. Something about opera just tugs at me … it flows out of me, like I don't even have to think it, it just comes."

Meggie's eyes were luminous, the rather frightening move practically forgotten. "How wonderful," she breathed. "I can't imagine what that feels like."

"Isn't singing that way for you? It always sounds so effortless."

Meggie shook her head. "Oh no. I am always having to think, to remember what my teachers have told me, to remind myself to breathe, not to hunch my shoulders, keep the back of my throat open … I love singing, but it's always work for me."

"Don't you have anything that comes naturally? Anything that just flows out of you? There must be _something_."

Meggie reflected. "Not really," she admitted. "Maybe I'm just not good at anything."

She looked so sad at the thought that Hawk couldn't resist squeezing her hand gently. "I know one thing you're so good at that you don't even think of it."

She blushed and extracted her hand from his grip. "What's that?"

He smiled into her honest eyes. "You know how to make other people happy. You know how to love. And that's a far greater gift than composing opera or anything like that."

Meggie didn't know what to say. Nobody had ever paid her such a compliment before. She lowered her eyes and found herself wishing she hadn't been in such a hurry to let go of Hawk's hand.

"What's all the commotion?" Hawk said, sounding annoyed at the interruption of their private conversation.

Meggie raised her head. People were rushing here and there, most with newspapers, or else standing in little groups talking, with worried expressions on their faces. "I don't know," she said. "Professor Ashton!" recognizing that teacher.

He halted in his rush back toward school. "Miss Meggie, Mr. Giraud," he said politely.

"Professor, what's going on?"

"You haven't heard the news?"

The two young people shook their heads. Professor Ashton's eyes were grave. "The Nazis have invaded France, Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands."

"Oh!" Meggie gasped in horror. She turned cold, remembering that Peter was most likely in Belgium right now.

"Some are saying it's the beginning of the end," Professor Ashton continued. "I wouldn't go that far, but … these are grave times, to be sure." He forced a smile. "Sorry for spoiling your date. See you back at school."

He walked on, leaving them staring blankly at each other. "Do you want to head back?" Hawk offered. "Somehow ice cream sodas don't seem quite the right thing for this moment."

Meggie numbly shook her head. What she wanted, more than anything, was to be with Papa and Matty—or either one of them. "Can we just walk?" she finally managed to say in a strained voice.

Hawk looked worried. "Of course." He took off his sports coat and carefully placed it around her shoulders. "Here. You look cold."

"I just can't believe this is happening," Meggie said miserably. "My cousins are over there. Aunt Persis _lives_ in France. How could … what is …" she trailed off, unable to even complete a thought.

Hawk scowled at the ground. "War," he muttered bitterly. "It does no good at all."

"What do you mean?" Meggie asked, trying to force herself out of her daze. She pulled his jacket a little tighter around her shoulders.

His head came up, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "What good has this war done? Has it stopped Hitler? All it's done is made things worse! If we hadn't interfered, none of this would be happening. If we'd sought a peaceful solution, people wouldn't be dying right now. I hate war. I hate _this_ war."

"We couldn't just let Hitler have his own way," Meggie protested. "He was hurting people in Germany and Austria, and other countries. If we hadn't stepped in to stop him, things would be even worse."

"We don't know that, do we? And at least it wouldn't have been our fault that people were being hurt."

"Papa always says that to stand by and do nothing while helpless people are being hurt makes you just as guilty as those doing the hurting."

"Of course, he was a soldier. He has to believe that." Hawk finally looked Meggie in the face. She was amazed at the torture reflected in his eyes. "I don't want to degrade your father's beliefs. I respect him, just like I respect all those who do what they believe to be right. But I—I _cannot_ believe one human being in ever justified in taking another human being's life, no matter what the provocation."

He kicked at the ground, scuffing his shiny shoes. "We're too quick to jump to war, as if it is the easiest solution. Rather than try to work things out peacefully, we just start killing, and whoever kills more people by the time everyone is sick of it wins. How does that prove which cause was just? Who are we to determine whether other people deserve to live or to die?"

Meggie didn't say anything. She'd never heard anyone say the sort of things Hawk was saying. They sounded reasonable, but when she thought of the atrocities the Nazis were committing, she _knew_ they had to be stopped, at any cost.

"You probably don't want anything to do with me now that you know I'm a pacifist," Hawk said resignedly after a few moments of silence.

Meggie looked at his downcast face and realized how hard it must be to believe something different than almost the entire rest of the country—how much of an outcast Hawk must feel. She slipped her hand through his arm. "Nonsense," she said warmly. I don't think I agree with you—at least not completely—but that's no reason to stop being friends. If we could only be friends with people who thought exactly like us on every point, why, we'd have no friends at all!"

He looked at her face with its comforting smile and reached over with his free hand to pat her arm. "Thank you."

By the time they got back to school, Meggie had almost forgotten about her fears over her first date. She had much more important things to think about now.


	14. End of Term

"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and suffering. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: Victory. Victory at all costs—Victory in spite of all terror—Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival."

The words of Britain's new Prime Minister echoed in Meggie's ears through the long weeks that followed. She and every other student struggled through finals, helped by sympathetic teachers.

"It all seems so pointless," Connie sighed, tossing her history book across the room impatiently. "What does it matter who Alexander the Great married, or how he died? What does anything matter compared to _right now_?"

"Do you suppose," Rose speculated dreamily, "that in future generations girls will be reading about these times, and wondering what is was like to live through this? I suppose someday we'll seem as distant as Alexander does to us. Isn't it odd, girls, to think that someday we'll be history?"

"Oh, it's easy for you to be philosophical about all this, Rose," Connie snapped. "Your country's not even fighting!" She bit her lip, looking ashamed. "I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry."

"No, you're right," Rose said, suddenly serious. She pushed herself up on her elbows and rolled to a sitting position on her bed. "I can feel horror and sympathy, but it doesn't affect me like it does you girls. You all have brothers, cousins, and friends fighting. I don't."

Meggie stared out the window at the soft green leaves and tried not to think about Peter. She hadn't had a letter from him in weeks, and news from Belgium was not encouraging. None of them had any idea where Bran was, but somehow Meggie couldn't feel as worried about him. Bran was the one more apt to get into trouble … and then get himself out of it. No matter what happened, she felt, Bran would always come out on top, with a smile and a joke. Peter, on the other hand …

Peter was different.

"Two of my brothers are over there," Merrill said softly.

Rose crossed over the room and patted her shoulder. "I'm sure they'll come through just fine, honey."

"I'm not coming back next fall," Merrill suddenly announced.

"Why not?" Meggie asked, startled out of her reverie.

"My parents need me at home. Especially now, with my brothers gone … all my other siblings have lives of their own. My parents don't have anybody to comfort them. It's my duty to stay."

"Did they ask you to leave school?" Samantha asked from her desk.

Merrill shook her head. "They wouldn't do that. I just know that it's the right thing to do."

"Oh dear," sighed Rose. "And I had hoped, now that Meggie has decided to stay, that we would all be able to stay together next year." She pulled a ferocious face. "That Hitler! How dare he interfere with our lives? I've a good mind to write him a scathing letter and tell him exactly what I think of him."

The other girls couldn't help giggling. Meggie could just picture their small, delicate Wild Rose marching up to Hitler and scolding him.

"I almost wish I could stay home, too," Meggie confessed, "but I said I'd do another year, and I won't go back on my word. Besides, even though Papa misses Matty and me, he has Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick—he doesn't really need us at home. Auntie Di told me that she thought I would be doing more for my country by getting a complete education than giving it up when I didn't have to."

"I have to stay," Connie said. "I don't have anything else for me. And," picking up her book and smoothing its crumpled pages, "I can't stay if I don't get good enough grades to keep my scholarship, so I guess I'd better learn about Alexander after all."

* * *

Before the girls left school for their summer vacations, Belgium fell to the Nazis. Meggie prayed that Peter had gotten out safely, but they heard nothing from him. Auntie Di had received a note from Bran, just a few lines scribbled on paper stating that he was fine and not to worry. That same day Jane's letter to Meggie arrived.

_Things are dreadful here, Meggie,_ she wrote. _Morale is desperately low. Nobody believes we can really win this war now. They don't think the Nazis can be stopped. We need more of the good fighting PEI spirit! I wish you were old enough to come work. I'm actually going to leave the QAs—I'm not much good as a nurse—and join the ATS as a clerk. You know how good I am at organizing, and I'm not much good as a nurse. Besides, the ATS are actually able to be in the thick of things. The whole time I'm tending to the wounded I'm longing to be out there fighting for them. I like to help people—but most of these soldiers seem beyond help._

_Oh, Meggie! We can't lose—but I'm afraid we might. Part of me wishes Bran could be wounded, so he could come back to relative safety—but then I remember how desperately we need men like him, who aren't afraid of anything, and I can't be so selfish. I wish they'd let _me_ fight; I'd fly a plane as well as any man. I don't think I'd do so well as infantry._

_I don't hear much from home. Mum writes occasionally, and always encloses a scrawl from Lyssa. Dad doesn't write at all—and I long to hear from him, just a few words to say he still loves me even though I left against his wishes. But he won't—he's even more stubborn than I am._

_Aunt Irene writes regularly, but I wish she wouldn't! She always tells me to come home and be a good girl._ _Jody writes, but her letters just make me homesick for Lantern Hill. Besides, she's so worried about her fiancé that she is always asking me for reassurance that things are going well, and I can't lie to her but I also can't tell her the truth …_

_It was lovely to receive your last letter. We know the Girauds, of course, though Grandmother doesn't approve of them. I don't know them well, but Graham sounds like a fine young man. I'm glad you're going on dates and moving ahead with life. It's nice to hear that there can be some semblance of normalcy back home. Maybe all this fighting is really worth something after all, if we can protect the world for those back home._

_It doesn't feel like it, most days, though. It feels like we're fighting a losing battle against darkness, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. _

_What's that old Bible verse? The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it? I cling to that. Darkness cannot win while the smallest amount of light still shines. And even Hitler and all his troops can't stamp out every bit of light._

_Can they?_

Meggie folded the letter. It was unlike Jane to sound so bleak. For her to be that worried, things must be even worse than she made them sound.

Then she remembered that Bible verse Jane had quoted at the end of her letter. No, not even Hitler could rid the world of every bit of light. Light was always stronger than darkness, and because of that very fact, darkness could never win, not entirely.

Strengthened by her belief, Meggie managed to get through her finals quite respectably.

She saw Professor Ashton as she was bringing her last bag downstairs to await the cab.

"Heading for home, Miss Meggie?"

Meggie smiled. "Yes."

"You will be seeing something of my Will, in a few weeks."

"Oh?"

"I'm teaching a summer class at a school out West, and your Aunt Di kindly invited Will to spend the summer at her house so he wouldn't have to rattle around our place all alone. She said it would be doing her a kindness—help make the house feel less lonely with her boys gone."

"I'm so glad," Meggie said genuinely. Will, although she knew him so little, seemed just like yet another cousin, and having him around would, indeed, help fill the gap left by Bran and Peter.

Meggie saw Hawk walking toward her, and promptly forgot all about her professor. Her eyes glowed, and she felt that familiar shyness sweep over her again, as it did every time she and Hawk were together.

"I'll miss you this summer," Hawk said without preamble.

Meggie nodded. "And I you," she said softly.

"May I write to you?"

She nodded again.

He smiled down at her. "And will you write back."

"Of course."

"Perhaps I could even call you … sometimes?"

"All right," Meggie said.

"I thought, maybe, you would like to spend a week in Montreal later on, perhaps in July? I'd very much like for you to get to know my family."

Meggie licked her suddenly dry lips. An entire week with Hawk and his family? Was she ready for that?

Hawk must have seen the indecision on her face, for he added gently, "You can think about it, all right?"

"I'll do that," Meggie said in relief.

He leaned forward, then hesitated and took her hand. "Goodbye," he said squeezing it softly.

"Goodbye," Meggie replied.

The cab pulled up at that moment, disgorging Matty. The two young men shook each other's hands, and Hawk left the twins together. Matty swept Meggie's bags into the cab and looked at her with glowing eyes.

"Ready to go home?"

Meggie forgot about Hawk as promptly as she had Professor Ashton. "Ready," she replied happily.


	15. The Dark June

The train ride to Carmody was as beautiful as ever, but neither twin noticed it. Even the joy of their homecoming was overshadowed by war news. Meggie shared Jane's letter with Matty (all except the parts about Bran, naturally), and he told her some of the conversation swirling around his school.

"They say there's talk of conscription," he said.

Meggie thought of Hawk and shivered. How dreadful it would be for a pacifist to have to fight!

"Now that Churchill is PM, nobody's saying anything about the war being over any time soon," he continued. "Meggie—what if it lasts three more years, and I get conscripted? I'm not a pacifist like your Hawk"—

Meggie almost protested at Matty calling him _her_ Hawk, but another part of her liked the way it sounded—

"But the thought of actually killing another person just makes me sick," her twin finished gloomily. "Some of the boys in my class are talking about lying about their age and joining up now. There's one sixteen-year-old who's our top football star, and looks like he's easily eighteen. He's already planning on joining up this summer. He's _excited_ about it." Matty shook his head.

"How can anyone be excited about hurting other people!" Meggie exclaimed indignantly. "I understand fighting because you feel it is your duty, because you want to protect the helpless, but to relish the thought is … barbaric."

"Not everyone is as noble as you, Meggie," Matty said, smiling a little at his sister's innocence.

"It's not nobility," Meggie replied spiritedly. "It's common humanity."

Matty sighed. "I'm with you, sis. Unfortunately, most people don't even think of the Nazis as human."

"That's because it is easier to hate someone who is less than human," said a new voice.

The twins turned as one to see Will Ashton leaning over the back of Matty's seat, his blue-grey eyes twinkling whimsically at them. "Forgive the interruption," he said. "I had hoped to eavesdrop unnoticed all the way to Carmody, but the conversation became too interesting for me to keep my mouth shut. Do you mind?"

Meggie smiled welcomingly, and Matty laughed. "Come and sit with us," he said, sliding over in his seat.

Will joined them so promptly Meggie suspected he was just waiting for an invitation.

"Imagine my surprise when I heard your voices behind me after the train started," he said. "I knew I'd be seeing you in Avonlea, but somehow it didn't occur to me we'd be sharing a train."

"You should have said something right away," Meggie said.

"I know," Will grinned. "But it was more fun imagining how I'd surprise you when I finally did speak."

"I suspect you're something of a rascal, Will Ashton," Meggie informed him.

Will's dimple deepened.

"Please, continue your fascinating conversation," he said. "I'll just chime in with my two cents once in a while."

Matty shrugged disgustedly. "What's the point in talking about it? We can't change anything by talking."

"No, but it's better to talk, and think, first, and then act," Will said seriously. "Too many people are inclined to simply act, without thinking at all."

"Why do we even have to hate the Nazis at all?" Meggie said, obediently picking up the thread of the conversation from where Will had interrupted. "Why can't we just say they're wrong and leave it at that?"

"Because you'll never get men to kill other men unless you stir them up to hate," Will said. "And it's hard to stir up support for a war when people think of the enemy as individuals, not just a faceless mass of evil. Hitler, now, he is certainly worthy of hatred, and some of the men serving him joyfully, but the majority of the soldiers, who are just following orders, doing what they've been trained to do, or who have been taught wrongly—well, when you think of the German boys as the counterparts to our lads, it becomes a different matter."

"You don't exactly sound like someone who is going to be fighting them himself in a year or less," Matty said.

Will smiled sunnily. "Oh, I'm a rare specimen, I am. I will fight, as Meg here has suggested, because it is my duty to stop the evil Hitler is trying to spread through his misguided soldiers. But I won't hate them." His face clouded over. "I'll pray for forgiveness for every soul I take."

"And I'll keep praying that I won't have to take any at all," Matty said.

"When do you turn eighteen, Will?" Meggie asked.

"August," he said. "I'll join the day after my birthday. Uncle Kip was upset to not be able to spend this last summer together, but he'd already promised to teach this course, and I didn't want him going back on his word. Your Aunt Di was kind enough to invite him to join us in Avonlea if he gets a chance before I leave."

"I hope he can come," Meggie said, happy to think about something more cheerful than war.

"So do I," agreed Will. "Tell me about Avonlea. Is it like Glen St. Mary?"

"Nicer," Meggie said at once.

"Much nicer," Matty said. "As long as you like forests and fields better than the sea."

"We have the sea in Avonlea, Matty," Meggie protested.

"Not like it is in the Glen," Matty countered. He grinned at Will. "For my part, ever since I almost drowned a few years ago, I've never really cared for the sea."

"Drowned!" Will exclaimed. "Sounds exciting."

"It was _horrible_," Meggie said emphatically, remembering watching her brother and cousins vanish beneath the cruel waves.

"It was stupid," Matty corrected them both. "We never should have trusted that leaky old tub of Gil's. Anyway, I'm a farmer at heart."

"And I'm a farm girl," Meggie said.

Will smiled at them both. "I've never been on a farm, so I can't tell you where my heart lies, except in the church." He shook his head. "I sound like that old song, how does it go? 'My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here.'"

"'My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer,'" Meggie chimed in. Matty slumped low in his seat as heads turned all around the car to see to whom the fresh young voices belonged.

Will noticed his chagrin and obligingly stopped singing. "Are we making a scene, Matt?"

"Just a bit of one," Matty said.

"Grandmother Thornton would be ashamed," Will said with every appearance of satisfaction.

"Who is Grandmother Thornton?" Matty asked.

"My Mum's mother, and oh, she's a Tartar, to be sure! She runs the family with an iron fist. She's never quite forgiven Uncle Kip for taking me out of her reach. I still get letters from her every week, trying to pry into every corner of my life. She's very big on propriety—says the Thornton name and reputation _must_ be upheld, even in barbaric Canada."

"But your last name is Ashton," Matty pointed out practically.

Will rolled his eyes expressively. "For Grandmother, I'm still a Thornton."

"She and Grandmamma Irving would get along well," Meggie said irreverently, thinking of her grandmother's insistence on the importance of the Irving name.

"More likely they'd hate each other," Matty countered. "What's that old thing Grandmother Blythe always quotes—'two suns hold not their courses in the same sphere'?"

Will's white teeth flashed as he laughed. "We'll have to make sure they never meet, then. Not that it's likely. Grandmother will never leave England."

"And Grandmamma hates leaving Boston—especially now that she can't travel to Paris."

"Grandmother thinks Paris is the centre of all earthly wickedness."

"Oh, Grandmamma thinks Washington, D.C. is that."

The conversation quickly turned to a comparison of grandmothers, and the more serious topic of war was dropped—at least for a time.

* * *

Early in June, the bombing of Paris began. It was horrible … Meggie couldn't bear to think about it. She cheered with everyone else when she heard about the successful Allied evacuation from Dunkirk—just think of those dozens of tiny fishing boats, all risking everything just to bring the soldiers to safety, some of them making trip after trip!—but under it all was a deep dread of the horrible things that were happening overseas. At times she felt she could almost become as fervent a pacifist as Hawk—but then she thought of the evil that would engulf the nations if Hitler weren't stopped—Belgium and France were just tiny examples of the atrocities of which he was capable.

And over all was a growing fear for Peter. Bran had written just a few lines to Auntie Di, saying that he was fine, but nobody had heard anything of Peter for weeks. Auntie Di insisted that he was all right.

"I would know if anything had happened to my boy," she said staunchly.

Uncle Patrick tried to support her, but Meggie could see through his façade. Polly, home from Queen's and preparing to teach at the White Sands school in the fall, was frankly terrified.

"I can't even pray," she confessed to Meggie one afternoon. "If I ask God to keep Peter safe, and something has already happened to him, I'll blame God, and hate myself for praying for him after the fact. If I ask God to give us strength to endure whatever bad news may come of Peter, I hate myself for having so little faith. Mum believes he's fine … why can't I?"

She clenched her soft white hands together to stop their trembling. Meggie reached out and laid her slim brown paw over Polly's.

"God knows your heart, beloved," she said softly.

Polly clutched her cousin's hand like a lifeline. "All those awful stories we heard about Dunkirk—the soldiers who couldn't be rescued, or the ones who died in the water on the way out … oh Meggie, what if Peter …" She couldn't finish.

Meggie closed her eyes. Peter was as dear to her as a brother—almost as close as Matty. Like Auntie Di, she felt she would _know_ if something had happened to him; like Polly, she feared she was fooling herself.

"I was so happy to graduate from Queen's," Polly continued, the words tumbling out. The close friendship she and Meggie had enjoyed as children had died somewhat as they grew older and their interests changed, but the war had brought them closer together once more. None of Polly's school friends could understand her the way this cousin did. "Lily is going on to Redmond, but I wanted to stay home so I could help Mum, and teach. I got the infants class at White Sands, and I was so excited. Mum and Dad came to see me graduate … I wore the white lace dress Auntie Nan sent me, even though I knew it was extravagant … and Pierre wrote the nicest letter to me, congratulating me on my academic achievements … and then this. This horrible dark cloud of fear hanging over my head. It's poisoning everything, and nothing will be settled until it is gone! Even knowing—one way or the other—even hearing the worst possible news—would be better than this uncertainty."

Meggie bit her lip. What could she say to comfort Polly that wouldn't sound patronizing or false? Besides, she agreed. Every time she did anything—went for a walk through the fields with Will, talked farming with Matty, made supper for Papa, anything—one thought kept niggling at the back of her mind:

_Where was Peter?_

Hawk had written to her twice, but she hadn't been able to write back. It just seemed so frivolous to write to her (Meggie couldn't bring herself to call him a boyfriend, even in her own mind) friend when her cousin could be hurt or even …

No. She wouldn't think it. Peter was _not_ dead.

* * *

Two days later, Meggie received an unexpected letter from England. The handwriting was graceful and sloping, nothing like Jane's black, certain script. Meggie couldn't think who else in England would write to her.

"Open it and find out," Will suggested when she told him her puzzlement. He had taken to bringing the Blythe and Samuels family mail home from the post office every day. He enjoyed the walk, he said, and he especially enjoyed all the characters he met along the road and at the post office.

Will fit into their life in Avonlea like a hand into an old glove. Sometimes Meggie had to remind herself that he wasn't really a cousin, she felt so comfortable around him. he and Matty went fishing quite a bit, sometimes with Meggie, sometimes on their own. His pleasant, mellow tenor delighted Uncle Patrick and enlivened their musical evenings around the piano. Even taciturn Shirley liked him, finding him easy to talk to, and even easier to be silent around. Only Polly held herself aloof, not daring to get too fond of anyone who was soon heading off to war. She was already in fear for her brother, and one other young man whom nobody but Matty suspected held a special place in her heart.

Will perched now on the kitchen table, swinging his long legs comfortably as he watched Meggie open the letter.

_Dear Miss Blythe,_ the opening read,

_My name is Jocelyn Reed. I'm not sure if your cousin Peter has ever spoken of me to you—though he has often mentioned _you_ to _me_. Peter worked for my father before joining the RAF. I consider him a friend, which is why I am writing to you._

_Have you heard anything of him in recent days? He doesn't write to me, but I hear of him in almost every letter I receive from Freddie (Lord Whitmore). The last letter Freddie sent said that he hadn't heard anything from or about Peter for weeks._

_I hope you do not think I am being terribly inquisitive, writing to you like this, but I am suddenly afraid for Peter. It would relieve my mind greatly if you could tell me that he's been writing faithfully to you—I know often men slack in their correspondence with each other. I hope and pray that is all this is._

_I am so sorry for writing to you without any kind of introduction, and hope that you forgive me when you consider my anxiety for our mutual friend._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Jocelyn Reed._

It was an impressive letter, written on creamy stationary in the same elegant script as had addressed the envelope. Meggie would never have dreamed of being affronted by a letter from Peter's Jocelyn in any case, and at the other girl's obvious concern for Peter, her heart overflowed with fellow-feeling. She decided she liked Jocelyn Reed.

"Not bad news, I trust?" Will said, watching her face.

Meggie shook her head. "No news at all," she said. "Just a letter that makes me have to tell bad news to someone else." She explained the contents to him.

Will shook his head. "I don't envy you your task." He slid off the table. "I'd best get back to Tanglewood with the rest of the mail. Your Auntie Di waits every day for a letter from Peter—I don't want to leave her with false hope a moment longer than is necessary."

"How do you know it's false?"

Will held up the sheaf of letters. "I check the addresses before handing them over. If there is something from Peter, I want to give it to her first. If not, I like to warn her ahead of time."

Meggie's heart warmed at his consideration. "That's very thoughtful of you."

Will shrugged. "You folks have given me a home for the summer. This is the least I can do in return." He patted her shoulder. "Chin up. There's a lot of people praying for Peter. God's taking care of him, wherever he is right now."

Meggie put on a brave smile. "I know."

_Dear Miss Reed,_

_I'm so glad to finally have a chance to get to know you. Peter has told me so much about all his friends in England, I almost feel as though I've met you already. I'm glad you wrote to me—I hate to think of you worrying and wondering without any knowledge of the facts._

_Unfortunately, I don't have any good news to pass on. No bad news, either—just no news at all. The last I heard from Peter was before Belgium; he said he was going to be out of contact for a few days but not to worry. I am sure you understand our fears based on that!_

_We are trusting God to bring him through this safely, though. As soon as I hear anything definite, I will let you know._

_Yours truly,_

_Meggie Blythe.

* * *

  
_

_Dear Miss Blythe,_

_Thank you for writing back so promptly. I will keep praying for Peter, and would appreciate any news you may receive._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Jocelyn Reed.

* * *

  
_

_Dear Miss Reed,_

_My aunt and uncle just received a telegram. Peter has been Missing in Action for three weeks now, they suspect captured by the Nazis._

_Please do continue to pray, not just for Peter but for all of us, especially my aunt and Peter's sister Polly. This is a hard blow._

_Your truly,_

_Meggie Blythe._


	16. Sorrow and Joy

The fall of France, horrible as it was, meant relatively little to the Blythe family in comparison to the hideous news of Peter's capture. Polly fainted when she heard the news, and couldn't get out of bed for weeks afterward.

"The Nazis—what will they do to him?" she whispered through bloodless lips. "My brother—my golden-haired Peter—the last of my real family."

Though neither Auntie Di nor Uncle Patrick made any sign, Meggie could tell that last statement wounded them terribly. Though it was true that Peter and Polly had been adopted, to the Samuels, they had never been anything but a "real" family. But Polly, in her grief, could not be wise or kind, and could only fret herself into an illness. Uncle Patrick even had a long telephone consultation with Uncle Jem, who had little patience with Polly's dramatics.

"Tell her to think of others beside herself," he said bluntly. "She needs to realize that she's not the only one who loves Peter."

Auntie Di, though heart-stricken, was made of sterner stuff than her daughter. She refused to think of the terrible possibilities; rather, she focused on the positive.

"He's alive," she said staunchly. "That is enough for now. Whatever happens to him—he is alive."

Mrs. Sloane, who had come to comfort Auntie Di in her affliction, sighed. "We can't know that, Diana dear. Them Nazis might have killed him at once. We'd best pray for his poor soul, just to be on the safe side."

Meggie, who was spending all her time with Polly and Auntie Di, flinched at the cruel words. Her aunt, however, did not so much as blink, though her eyes grew extremely green and her carriage became a little more erect. "Pray rather for the souls of those Nazi soldiers who commit such atrocities, Sarah Sloane. Pray for the souls of village people who backbite and gossip during times of trials. My Peter is in God's hands, and I have no fear for his soul."

Mrs. Sloane looked as though she hardly knew whether to be insulted or horrified. Fortunately for her, Mrs. Rev. Craig chose that moment to knock at the door, and Mrs. Sloane thankfully made her escape, thinking the minister's wife would be able to deal with Diana Samuels' odd sayings—though, to be sure, it likely wasn't her fault, as her mind was probably giving way under the strain.

Comforted by this bit of ghoulishness, Mrs. Sloane made her way to Mrs. Pye's house to talk over the latest scandal.

"I won't stay," Mrs. Rev. Craig said, her ruddy face sympathetic. "I know any outsiders, no matter how well-meaning, can only be an irritant right now. I remember when my little sister—when she passed on, how terribly people's kind words hurt my mother. Even though your Peter isn't—isn't in Cecily's position—well, there! Here I said I wouldn't talk, and I am chattering away." She deposited a large basket on the table. "I brought you some food—some folks don't feel much like cooking when they're sorrowing, though I always found it helped me through. I brought some of my last year's preserves—your Polly might enjoy them, and I made some biscuits, and brought you a meat pie, which you only need warm in the oven, and—well, you can look through it yourself." She kissed Meggie, took Auntie Di's hand warmly in hers, and bustled out again, blinking away a few tears.

"There," Auntie Di said to Meggie, "is a real Christian."

* * *

By the time Polly got out of bed and Meggie was released from her temporary nurse duties, she herself felt close to the breaking point. Long hours spent indoors with a nervous, high-strung girl constantly weeping and assuming the worst had worn Meggie's sensitive spirit down to the quick. Shirley noted it the first night she was back, and worried. The last thing they needed was Meggie having a breakdown! He began to wonder if he shouldn't send her somewhere for the rest of the summer—Glen St. Mary, perhaps, where both the Drs. Blythe could keep an unobtrusive eye on her, or maybe even to visit her friend Rose Greye in Boston, where the Irvings could make sure she was all right. He would hate to not see his little girl for the rest of the summer, but he would hate worse for her to take ill.

When he broached the idea to Meggie, however, she vehemently opposed it.

"Oh Papa, don't send me away! At least here I'll know as soon as Auntie Di knows anything more about Peter. And I can help her—and here I have you, and Matty. Please don't make me leave."

Shirley capitulated, but after talking to his father, he laid down a few rules. Until Polly was well enough to come to Green Gables, visits with her were not allowed. Meggie had to spend every fine day outdoors, and even when it rained she had to spend at least an hour outside, provided she dried off thoroughly and had a hot drink as soon as she came in. No tea or coffee, and only wholesome, simple foods.

Meggie agreed to all these conditions (anything to stay at Green Gables!), and Shirley was pleased to be able to report to his father at the end of one week that she was sleeping better and had some color returned to her cheeks. Her eyes still bore a haunted look, but that, he supposed, was only natural while they waited to hear news of Peter.

Meggie spent much of her outdoor time helping Matty around the farm, and the two of them enjoyed showing Will the ropes. He was admittedly a clumsy farmer, but at least he was enthusiastic.

"You see," he said, panting after trying to help fork a load of hay up into the loft. Meggie had tried to show him the knack of it, but he still kept dropping most of it back down on him. His shirt was speckled with chaff, and bits of hay stuck to his eyebrows and mouth. "You see, I have absolutely no natural talent for this, so I have to make up in effort what I lack in skill."

"Here," Meggie said, clambering back up into the wagon, while Matty watched in amusement from the loft, "you hold the fork like this, and swing like this."

Her load, though half the size of Will's, landed neatly at Matty's feet.

Will took the fork from her, blowing out determinedly. "Right then, here goes." He attempted to imitate Meggie's form, dropped the fork over the edge of the wagon, lost his balance and toppled over, knocking Meggie back with him into the warm hay.

"I don't think that was quite it," Matty called, peering at them from his safe perch.

Will tried to apologize as he helped Meggie back to his feet, but his helpless laughter interfered greatly with the believability of the apology. She didn't mind; she was laughing herself as she tried to brush the clinging hay from her old dress. Too short for her, of a style that would have made Samantha cringe, she only used it for barn chores, but she thought this latest tumble might have rendered it useless. In fact, she was pretty sure she had heard a few seams give as she had collapsed into the hay.

"I don't think God meant me for a farmer," Will said.

"I hope you preach better than you swing a pitchfork," Matty teased.

Will set his jaw. "I may have no skill, but I do have determination. I'll get this load up if I have to carry it one piece at a time." He peered over the side of the wagon for the fork. "Where'd it go?"

"Looks like you could use some help," said a masculine voice from the shadows near the barn entry.

Meggie rolled over to see who was there. The stranger holding the fork looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place him …

Up above, Matty gave a shout. "Johnny!"

Meggie gasped. She tumbled out of the wagon as fast as Matty raced down the ladder, and the twins rushed at their beloved prodigal cousin. Her returned their hugs with enthusiasm, showing none of his customary taciturnity, laughing gleefully at their surprise.

"Bet you didn't expect to see me, eh?" he boasted, flinging an arm around Meggie's shoulders. "Bet you thought I had dropped off the face of the earth."

"What are you doing here?" Matty asked.

Meggie couldn't speak. She was still somewhat in shock at seeing Johnny so unexpectedly. He had changed so much: no longer the sullen, awkward boy he'd once been. He was shorter than Matty, but more solidly built, and his grey eyes shone with a new confidence out of his oddly mature face. He was only sixteen, but just then Meggie felt he was ages older than she.

Johnny shrugged. "I've been knocking around Canada for a few years, mostly out west, but I recently got a job that brought me to Nova Scotia. Well, I couldn't be that close and not try to see you folks."

"Will you stay?" Meggie asked, thinking how delighted everyone would be to welcome Johnny back to the family. It wouldn't quite make up for Peter's loss, but it would heal a far older wound.

Johnny shook his head. "I can't. I'm not angry anymore at my family—not even Blythe—but I've gotten used to being independent. I can't go back to being the second son, living as a child again."

"Can't you at least stay long enough to see everyone?" Meggie asked wistfully. She felt guilty that they should have a visit from Johnny when Auntie Nan hadn't even heard from him in over a year.

"With our family, that would take a month at least," Johnny said. "Besides, if I see Mum, and Father, they'll make me feel that I should stay. Or, worse yet, I'll remember all the reasons I had for leaving. I'm tired of hating everyone, tired of trying to please people and never succeeding. You two and Uncle Shirley—and Uncle Bruce, I suppose—are the only ones who really cared for me just as I was." His face hardened momentarily. "I don't really feel any family loyalty to anyone else."

Meggie couldn't fully understand him, but she leaned her head against his sturdy shoulder anyway. "I'm glad you're here now, at least."

"And it appears I'm just in time," he said, his tone lightening. "Need a hand with this hay?"

"Please," said Will, who had been standing quietly aside this entire time. "I'll go make myself useless elsewhere."

"And I'll go tell Papa you're here," Meggie said. She followed Will out of the barn.

"Am I allowed to inquire about Johnny?" he asked once they were out of earshot.

"It's no secret," Meggie said. "He ran away from home—oh, I don't know, two years ago, I guess. He used to come spend time with us here, helping out around the farm, but he never really fit in anywhere else. He and Matty were great friends."

"He seems to have thrived away from home," Will said.

Meggie shrugged helplessly. "I know—but it just seems wrong that he has. Shouldn't you always be better off with family than without it?"

"Depends on the family, and the individual, I guess," Will said. "I certainly never thrived with the Thorntons, yet Uncle Kip and I belong perfectly together. Sometimes it's not even the fault of the family—one person just doesn't fit into the mold of the rest."

"That was Johnny, all right," Meggie sighed. For a few hours, in the fun of showing Will how to fork hay, and the delight of seeing Johnny, she'd almost forgotten about Peter. Now it all came rushing back, the pain stronger than ever for its temporary absence.

"I just wish everything could be simple again, like it was when we were children," she said, seemingly apropos of nothing. Will didn't ask for an explanation, though. He just moved a bit closer, so his shoulder brushed against hers while they walked, and the touch gave her some measure of comfort.

* * *

_Dear Hawk,_

_I'm sorry I haven't written to you. It's been terribly remiss of me …_

_Dear Hawk,_

_I am so sorry it has been this long …_

_Dear Hawk,_

_How are you? How is Montreal? We're …_

Meggie tossed the pen down and sighed. She needed to write to Hawk—his last letter asked if he had offended her in any way, since she hadn't replied to any of his letters. Somehow, though, she just couldn't find the words to tell him everything that had happened in the few short weeks since they had left school. Will, whom she knew far less than Hawk, seemed to understand their grief instinctively, knowing when to stay and offer comfort and when to leave them to their sorrow. While Meggie was sure Hawk would be kind and sympathetic, she just wasn't ready to share her pain with him.

Still, she needed to tell him something. Johnny had left that morning, after spending only one night with them, and she needed to take her mind off how much she missed him already.

_Dear Hawk,_

_Of course I'm not offended or upset with you. The reason I haven't written …_

She was quite relieved when the jangling of the telephone interrupted her attempt. Shirley and Matty were both in the barn (she was only inside because it was raining and cool), so she had the perfect excuse to leave the letter behind for the telephone.

"Green Gables."

"Meggie?"

She recognized that polished voice at once. "Hawk!" She laughed tremulously, trying to disguise the rush of nervousness that suddenly filled her. "I was just trying to write to you."

"I'm glad to hear that. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

"Oh no," she said, distressed at the real sorrow in his voice. "No, it's just … these have been a difficult few weeks. My cousin …" she choked a little, but the words had to be said. "My cousin has been captured by the Nazis, and we've all been wrapped up in that."

"Oh Meggie, I'm so sorry. I wish I could be there for you."

"Thank you. I should have written, though."

"Nonsense! The last thing you need to worry about is me. Just take care of yourself, so you can come back to school in a couple of months." He paused. "Meggie, I've had the most marvelous idea. You remember we had talked about you visiting my family sometime this vacation?"

Meggie remembered that he had mentioned it, but she didn't think there had been much discussion involved.

"Well, maybe now, when you're so worried about your cousin, would be a perfect time to come. It would take your mind off things, and my family would do anything possible to help cheer you up. Won't you come?"

He was persuasive, but Meggie couldn't agree. Right then, the very thought of being cheerful, when everyone else was heartsick, seemed impossible and cruel. "That's very kind of you, Hawk, but I'm afraid I can't leave my family right now. They need me—and I need them."

"I see." He sounded so disappointed Meggie almost changed her mind. "You will come back to school, though, in the fall?"

"I'm planning on it," Meggie answered.

"I suppose I'll have to settle on seeing you then. I wish you would change your mind, though. I just know you'd love my family. You've already met Mother, of course, and my younger brothers would adore you, and Sally would follow you everywhere like a tiny puppy."

Meggie laughed. "I am sorry, Hawk."

"Well, if you do change your mind, call me any time and let me know. We can come fetch you at a moment's notice."

"Thank you," she said, wishing he would drop the subject. She was starting to feel stifled. "How has your summer been?"

"Lonely," he said significantly.

Meggie felt the color rise in her cheeks and wondered how she could change the subject again.

Thankfully, Hawk started talking then about some of the activities he and his siblings had been doing, and the conversation ended by the time Shirley and Matty came in. They, of course, noticed her heightened color and clouded eyes and asked if everything was okay.

"Yes," she said. "I just—that was—Hawk just called me and we talked for a few minutes," she finally blurted.

Matty raised his eyebrows and whistled teasingly. He stopped, though, when he saw his twin's distressed face.

"It's not a crime, sis," he said. "You don't need to look so guilty over it."

"I'm not guilty," Meggie insisted. "I'm just …" she trailed off. "I need to start dinner."

Shirley watched her go, wondering when his little girl had become a woman, and what he was going to do about it.


	17. Heart to Heart

_Dear Wild Rose,_

_Thank you for your last letter. We haven't heard anything new about Peter, so we are just waiting, hoping and praying. Bran wrote to Auntie Di last week swearing that he knows Peter is alive and well, and just biding his time until he can escape. Sometimes I think Bran's superstitious—too many mythologies in his youth—but now I hope his "sixth sense" is right. Bran also told Auntie Di not to worry about him—he also knows that he'll make it through this war. He said he expects to be wounded once or twice, but he knows he'll come through just fine._

_As for the rest of the family, nothing new is happening. We had to tell Auntie Nan that Johnny was here, but didn't stay and didn't want to see anybody else. I'm glad Papa made that phone call; I can't imagine her reaction. Actually I can, because Dee wrote me a very long, indignant letter all about how _unfair_ it was that her brother likes me better than her. She then ended by telling me about her new boyfriend, and new party dress, and new way of doing her hair that makes her look sixteen, at least. I love all my cousins, Rose, but sometimes I think Dee and I are from different worlds._

_Lily is getting ready for Redmond in the fall. It's a bit of a Blythe family tradition to attend Redmond. I think it would be almost unheard of for one of us to go somewhere else. Peter, of course, went to Cambridge—but only after Redmond. Walt talks about going to McGill, but I think he just does that to see people's reactions._

_Lily is very beautiful, and apparently most folks in the Glen think it's ridiculous for her to attend college when she could marry anyone she wants in a few years. "Why spoil a face like that with book-learning?" Mrs. Drew asked Aunt Faith. But Lily's also very smart, and ambitious, and hates it when people refuse to look beyond her face. Sometimes I think she's the best out of all of us._

_Polly has recovered physically from hearing about Peter, and she's still planning on teaching at White Sands this fall. Emotionally, though, she's still shattered. I wish I could help her, but she's closed herself off to everybody. Will says she writes long letters in French to someone overseas, but he won't try to translate the name on the envelope, since it's none of his business. Very admirable of him, but now my curiosity is piqued, and I wish she'd talk to me and tell me what she's up to._

_No, I am not going to Montreal this summer. Hawk invited me, but I just need to be home. It was sweet of you to offer to have me in Boston, and maybe I'll come visit you sometime, but not right now, when everything is so topsy-turvy._

_Your summer sounds like it has been delightful. Do tell me all about your visit to the High Valley and Geoff's family. Western United States is so different from Western Canada. I keep expecting to hear you tell me about wild gunfights with Indians and "riding the ranges" and keeping company with military officers in blue uniforms with gold epaulets—but that's just silliness from reading too many of Matty's dime novels. If I ever went to England I'd expect to meet Sherlock Holmes and Watson from his mystery novels!_

_Merrill has written to me once, and sounds very contented to be back home. She's finally of some importance to her family, she says, and she doesn't regret choosing to leave school at all. We will miss her so this year! I'm so glad you arranged to have Connie room with us, though. At least we'll have four out of our fivesome._

_This letter is unpardonably long; forgive me. I hate the thought of summer ending, but I am so looking forward to seeing you and being able to chatter all we want without worrying about postage!_

_Love always, and tell me all about High Valley,_

_Meggie._

Meggie finished her letter and leaned back in the warm green grass, sighing with contentment. She was thoroughly happy in her grandfather's orders to stay out of doors as much as possible. One of the hardest things about Toronto—besides not having Papa there—was the lack of fresh, outdoorsy places to wander. There were plenty of parks, but somehow they all just seemed too finished, too artificial. Meggie longed for the woods, for the open fields, for the freedom to roam whithersoever she willed … or just to lay on her own green lawn and dream of happier times.

"You look content," said a slightly reproachful voice.

Meggie sat up to see Polly walking toward her. "So I am," she replied promptly.

"I'm glad _you_ can be content just doing nothing," Polly said bitterly. "Every time I sit down, I start thinking of Peter again, and I just want to scream … and scream … and scream. But of course, that would be unladylike, so I start to work again."

Meggie flinched. "Oh Polly, you make it sound like nobody cares about Peter but you. Of course I'm worried about him. When I wake up in the middle of the night and think about him in an enemy prison camp, I get so afraid I can hardly bear it."

Polly sighed and sat down. For just a moment, her eyes lost their deadened expression. "I know, Meggie. I've been horrid these last few weeks. I know everyone is disgusted with me, thinking I'm being so selfish, but …" she trailed off.

Meggie put her arm around the smaller girl's shoulders. "Won't you talk to me, dear? We've always been such good friends. I wish you'd confide in me."

Polly tore up a few blades of grass and nervously picked them to pieces in her lap. "You wouldn't like me anymore if you really knew what I was feeling … as bad as everyone thinks I am now, it'd be worse if the truth got out."

Meggie put on her stern face. "Now that's just nonsense, Mary Samuels. Nothing you do or say could ever make any of us love you any less."

To her surprise, Polly burst into tears.

"Polly, Polly … what's wrong? What did I say? Don't cry, please." Meggie grew more and more distressed as her cousin showed no signs of ever stopping. "Polly, I'm going to have to fetch Auntie Di if you don't calm down."

That got through. Polly held up one hand for Meggie to wait while she visibly tried to bring herself under control. Finally, the tears stopped, though an occasional dry sob still shuddered through her frame.

"Don't go … don't fetch anyone. I'll tell you, Meggie, if you promise not to tell anyone else."

"I promise," Meggie said, half afraid still for her cousin's health.

"I shouldn't have broken down like that—it's just—that's what _he_ calls me, Mary. He doesn't use Polly, because he says it is too much of a little girl's name, and he thinks of me as a woman."

"Peter?" Meggie asked in complete bewilderment. She had never heard him refer to his sister as anything but Polly.

"No." Polly wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and looked down, blushing. "Pierre."

"Who … Pierre Ford?" This was a new shock. Polly had had a "crush" on Persis Ford's son Pierre several years ago, but Meggie had no idea it had lasted, or had turned into anything more than a schoolgirl dream.

Matty, she recalled now, had said something about Polly's feelings for Pierre, but she hadn't paid attention.

"We've been writing ever since they visited us three years ago," Polly confessed, her cheeks still fiery. "At first it was just to help me learn French, but then we started talking about other things, and we became friends, and now … oh Meggie, I love him so, and I know he loves me, although he is too honorable to say anything while I'm still so young and before he can talk to Dad. But the way he writes—when I compare the letters he writes now with the ones he used to, I can see how much his feelings have changed. And now," tears started to trickle down her cheeks again, though she kept her voice under control, "now he had joined the French army, right before Paris was taken, and I know he'll be killed or captured, and he told me right before I heard about Peter, and now I don't know who I'm more upset over, and I feel so guilty over worrying about Pierre when Peter is in such a terrible position, but I can't help it, and …"

Meggie silenced her with a hug. "Hush," she said gently. "It's all right, Polly. Everything's going to be all right."

Polly sniffed. "You don't think I'm terrible?"

"Of course not! I just wish you'd told me about Pierre sooner. How long have you … felt the way you feel about him?"

Polly sighed, her eyes growing dreamy. "I was swept up in the romance of how handsome he was when they visited us, when I was just fourteen. Then we started writing, and I realized he was so wonderful. He's kind, and so intelligent, and devoted, and loyal, and honorable … I didn't even know how much my feelings for him were deepening until one of my friends at Queen's asked why I never went on dates with anybody, and I realized that I didn't care about being with anyone who wasn't Pierre. Then I knew I loved him, and shortly after that his letters started to grow more tender, and I knew that he loved me as well. That's why I want to teach, instead of going right to college. He has such a high opinion of me, and I want to live up to it. I don't know what I'd study at college, so I thought if I taught for a little while I would know better, and I wouldn't waste Mother and Dad's money by just going for the sake of going."

Meggie couldn't believe this was the same Polly she'd always known. Somewhere along the way she had changed from an overly dramatic, somewhat silly girl to a _woman_.

"I am worried about Peter—so scared for him," Polly said. "But I would have been better able to bear the news if I hadn't just found out about Pierre. Even now, I'm so ashamed of my behavior … and I've treated Mum abominably, left her to endure this on her own … and I'm still feeling guilty about even thinking about Pierre when Peter's in danger."

"Polly, if you love him, it's perfectly natural that you would worry about him," Meggie said firmly. "You don't need to feel guilty. As for Auntie Di, the best thing you can do for her right now is talk to her. Tell her everything you just told me."

"I can't do that!" Polly protested. "She won't understand! What if she forbids me from writing to Pierre?"

Meggie gave her cousin a half-loving, half-exasperated glare. "Honestly Polly, you read too many romances. Your mother isn't some cruel stepmamma who only wants to destroy the heroine's happiness. Your mum loves you, and she thinks the world of Pierre, and I think she'll be so pleased that you're confiding in her that it will do her more good than anything else right now."

"You really think so?"

"I'm sure of it."

"I'll try it, then," Polly decided. She hugged Meggie. "Thank you, cousin dear. I don't know how I would have gone on if you hadn't talked to me."

"What else are cousins for?" Meggie asked.

Polly released her and looked mischievous. "What about your romance, Meggie? You hardly say a word about your Hawk."

Meggie blushed. "It's not serious," she said. "We've only been on one or two dates."

"Pierre and I have never been on one date," Polly said. "It can be serious without that."

"Well, it's not." Meggie tried not to feel defensive.

"Would you like it to be?"

"I don't know," Meggie confessed. "I don't really like to think about it. I like Hawk … but I get nervous whenever people talk about us, as a couple. Sometimes I think I'm still too young to be serious about anybody."

Polly looked directly into Meggie's eyes. "And would _he_ like it to be serious?"

"I think so," Meggie admitted. "And then I feel bad, because I think he feels more strongly than I do, and I don't know what to do about it."

"I wish I had advice for you," Polly said. "As your older cousin, I should be able to give advice, but I don't know, either. My romance with Pierre doesn't exactly qualify me as an expert." She laughed suddenly. "Maybe you should ask Dee."

Meggie wrinkled her nose. "I think I'd rather go on figuring it out myself."

The two girls fell silent, watching as Will and Matty strolled across the barnyard.

"Will's a nice fellow," Polly said suddenly. "I wish he wasn't joining up. I'd like it if he stayed around longer."

"He does seem just like part of the family, doesn't he?" Meggie agreed. "I keep forgetting he's not really a cousin." She smiled whimsically. "I'll have to be careful back at school not to call Professor Ashton 'Uncle Kip!'"

Polly smiled, too. "I'm really proud of you for going back to school. I was always afraid that your love for Green Gables would prevent you from doing things that would be really good for you, or that you might really enjoy."

"I never thought anything could be worth leaving Green Gables," Meggie said thoughtfully. "But I'm learning so much … not just about music, but about life … about me," thinking of Samantha. "I really think it's helping me grow."

"Are you sure you're not just going back because of Hawk?" Polly teased.

Meggie blushed again. "No!"


	18. Partings

Professor Ashton came up for a week in August—just in time to bid Will goodbye. Auntie Di hosted an eighteenth birthday party for Will, and it was surprising how many Avonlea folk attended. In the few short months he had been in their little hamlet, Will had worked his way into many hearts.

"How have you made so many friends, Will?" Auntie Di asked him in amazement, surveying the crowd on Tanglewood's front lawn.

He shrugged. "I guess it's just my winning personality … that and I stop to talk to everyone every time I go out."

"I hope I made enough strawberry shortcake," Auntie Di murmured.

Polly, standing nearby, rolled her eyes. "Oh Mum, _did_ you hear Mrs. Andrews? She claims that you made strawberry shortcake just because you're too mean to make Will a _proper_ birthday cake!"

"But I asked for it," Will said in bewilderment. "I don't like cake … too rich."

"Annabelle Andrews is Josie Pye's daughter," Auntie Di said calmly. "And that is all there is to be said about that!"

Polly and Auntie Di were better friends than ever now. Polly had taken Meggie's advice and told her mother all about Pierre. Auntie Di had been relieved to hear a true reason behind Polly's hysterics. It had been hard for her thinking she hadn't even taught her daughter the rudiments of self-control in troubled times. This, however … this combination of two heart-wrenching events, coming one on top of the other … that was reason enough for any woman to collapse.

For her part, Polly was amazed and delighted at her mother's quick sympathy regarding her love for Pierre. She had expected Di to be upset, or at least concerned, but instead she simply said,

"Pierre is a fine young man, and I've always thought so. Obviously nothing can happen between you two right now, but when the war is over, if you both feel the same, I see no reason why you shouldn't be together. You're seventeen now—old enough to know your own mind. I'd much rather have you waiting and hoping for Pierre than wasting your time chasing after young men here and now."

Whereupon Polly hugged her mother, and wondered why on _earth_ she'd been bearing her burden so long by herself.

Meggie wandered by the trio standing on the lawn. She bore a pitcher of lemonade in each hand and smiled at them.

"We're starting to run low on lemonade, Auntie," she said. "Once I've delivered this batch I'll go make some more."

"Here, let me help you," Will said, springing into action. He took one pitcher from her and escorted her across the grass to the buffet table set up underneath the oak trees.

"But you're the guest of honor," Meggie protested. "You're not supposed to be doing any work."

"It's good for me," he winked. "Get me in shape for the army. They don't take it easy on you there!"

Meggie touched his arm with her free hand. "Keep your voice down," she cautioned. "Your uncle is nearby, and he doesn't need to be reminded that you're leaving in two days."

Will glanced at his uncle, who was deep in conversation with Patrick Samuels, but still keeping one eye on his nephew. "Poor old Uncle Kip. I hate leaving him all alone like this."

"Just make sure you come back to him, then," Meggie ordered, setting the sweating pitcher down on the table.

Will gave her a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am." He winked merrily at her and strolled off to talk to his uncle. Meggie walked back to the house, bent on making more lemonade.

She was surprised when Mrs. Andrews—Mrs. _Annabelle_ Andrews—stopped and tapped her arm. Mrs. Andrews was a good ten years younger than Papa, but far too old for her outrageous clothing and disgraceful flirting. Meggie had never much cared for Mrs. Andrews, but politeness held her in place.

"So," Mrs. Andrews said slyly, one eye screwing up in an attempt at a roguish wink, "What's this I hear about your wealthy young _beau_ back in Toronto?"

Meggie had lived in a small town her entire life, so she didn't even wonder how the news about her and Hawk had spread. She hadn't said anything—Matty and Papa certainly wouldn't, and neither Auntie Di nor Polly were gossips. As for Uncle Patrick, Meggie doubted _he_ was even aware of her friend. Yet somehow, the entire village knew. Meggie gave an inward sigh of resignation and forced a smile on her lips.

"Hawk is just a friend, Mrs. Andrews," she said.

"That's not what I hear," the older woman said. "I hear he's even telephoned you several times since you've been home! Is it true you're visiting his family? His mother wants to approve of you, I suppose—see if a little country girl is good enough for her son?"

Meggie tried not to blush, but she was dismally aware of the pink rising in her cheeks. Hawk had only called her once—and _how_ did Mrs. Andrews know about his invitation? That was carrying village omniscience just a bit too far!

"I'm not planning on going anywhere until school starts again," she said.

Mrs. Andrews tossed her head. "Well, that's just as well. _I _was married at seventeen, but you're still far too young. Besides, no doubt his family wants him to marry someone rich and well-bred. You Blythes may think yourselves grander than the rest of us here, but you're nothing compared to some of those Montreal families. Why, Blair Giraud's mother was Sara Stanley, the famous actress!"

"Who spent what she calls the happiest years of her youth right here on Prince Edward Island," interrupted Mrs. Rev. Craig unexpectedly. "Sara Stanley is my cousin, you know, and she is certainly not a snob, nor did she raise her son to be one. She has her peculiarities, to be sure, but she's far prouder of her King heritage than her wealthy husband or famous exploits."

"Besides," young Mrs. Gillis chimed in, seeing Mrs. Andrews' cheeks flame at this rebuke from the minister's wife, "I seem to recall, when we were in school, that you didn't think so poorly of the Blythes yourself, Annabelle _dear_. Didn't you always swear you were going to marry Shirley Blythe, and only agreed to take Tom Andrews after he married Cecily Irving?"

Meggie had never heard this story before, but she slipped away while Mrs. Andrews sputtered out something about schoolgirl fancies. While she appreciated Mrs. Rev. Craig coming to her rescue, she did so dislike the ill-natured gossip that seemed a crucial part of any Avonlea gathering. And she especially disliked it when she was the target!

"Why the long face, Meggie?" Matty asked her, joining her as she headed for the kitchen.

"I just wish people would stop talking about Hawk and me," she said.

Matty regarded her quizzically. "Why does it bother you? You get all embarrassed any time anyone even mentions him. Don't you like going on dates with him? Don't you like him?"

"Of course! I just don't like to talk about it, that's all. It's nobody else's business."

Matty quirked his lips in a wry smile. "In Avonlea, everything is everyone's business."

He snagged a cookie off the cooling racks where Auntie Di had left them to bring out after the shortcake was gone, and left Meggie to her lemonade and her thoughts.

Why _did_ it bother her so much to talk—or even think about Hawk? When she was with him, she was delighted. She felt just like a princess in a fairy tale, being swept off her feet by Prince Charming. Hawk was handsome, gracious, kind, intelligent, and treated her like she was a fine treasure. Any girl would adore him, and when they were together, Meggie had no questions regarding her feelings.

When they were apart, though … she felt nervous and uncomfortable just thinking about him.

She stopped mixing and paused, one hand holding the wooden spoon suspended above the pitcher, eyes fixed unseeingly out the kitchen window. Maybe … maybe it was because part of her, deep down, didn't really believe that _she_ could hold the attention of someone like Graham Giraud forever. Maybe because she always felt like she had to be on her best behavior around him. Certainly she would never dream of teasing him like she would her cousins—or teaching him how to fork hay into a loft as she had Will.

She couldn't quite be herself around Hawk. Oh, she didn't lie about who she was—but she wasn't her _whole_ self. She couldn't show him every side of Meggie—only her best side.

Meggie shook her head and resumed stirring. It was nothing to worry about now. If she and Hawk were meant to be together, these things would work themselves out. If not—that too would become glaringly evident in time.

Meanwhile, Auntie Di had thirsty guests out on the lawn.

* * *

Two days later, Will was gone. Professor Ashton thanked them all profusely for their hospitality to "his boy," but Will just gave them his crooked grin and told them he'd be back after the war.

"You can't get rid of me now," he informed Auntie Di.

She embraced him warmly. "Dear boy," she murmured. "As if we would want to."

Professor Ashton didn't stay in Avonlea after Will left, though Auntie Di invited him. He said that Dr. and Mrs. Blythe had asked him to come stay with them for a week or so before term started, and he was taking them up on their offer.

"Now, I wonder what Mother is up to?" Auntie Di muttered with narrowed eyes as they waved the handsome professor off.

"What do you mean, Mum?" Polly asked. "Why should Grandmother be up to anything?"

"Your grandmother has some scheme in mind, some reason behind inviting Christopher Ashton to visit," Auntie Di declared. "I can smell it in the wind."

"Maybe she just thinks he'll be lonely with Will gone," Meggie offered innocently.

"Maybe," Auntie Di conceded. "But I doubt it." She sighed. "Lord knows we'll be lonely enough. I never would have believed any young man could belong to our family so quickly and completely as that boy did. Seeing him go—why, it's almost like sending off our own boys."

Polly wrapped an arm around her mother waist. "Don't be said, Mother. I'll be here this fall. You and Dad won't be alone again."

Auntie Di touched her daughter's smooth head. "And we're thankful for that, darling."

Before Meggie knew it, the last few weeks of vacation had flown by, and it was time to return to school. She hated to leave her beloved Green Gables, but part of her was eager to get back to her friends and studies.

"I wish you could meet Rose," she told Polly. "She's such a dear; I know you'd like her. And Connie, and even Samantha isn't too bad once you get to know her."

"They sound like wonderful friends for you," Polly answered. "But I don't really have the heart to make new friends right now, even if I was in Toronto, or going to Redmond. Between Peter and Pierre, I just can't focus on ordinary things. I wish I could—I think it would make it easier."

Meggie felt a pang of guilt over being able to push her fear for Peter to the back of her mind. Polly read her face and hugged her. "Oh, don't look like that! I know you love Peter and are worried about him, too. I'm not quite so selfish in my grief as I was at first. You're just—more _balanced_ than I am. And I think—I think maybe your faith is stronger. You see, you really truly believe God is going to bring Peter home."

"Not always," Meggie whispered, but Polly continued as though she hadn't heard.

"I, on the other hand, have a sinking feeling that God doesn't care about us—any of us—any more, and even if He does, why should we be spared the pain that others have endured?"

Meggie tried to explain. "Polly, I know that we could lose someone we love just as easily as any other family—not just Peter, but even Uncle Bruce or Uncle Ken, for all they're non-combatants. But I know, no matter what happens, that God still loves us."

Polly smiled wanly. "I guess that's the real difference, then. I can't believe that God loves us—any humans. Or else why would He allow all this to happen?"

Meggie felt the bitterness behind the question, and wished desperately she could answer. She couldn't—she could only cling to what she knew in her heart to be true.

"Oh God," she whispered, after Polly had gone home. "Please help her to see."

She suddenly felt very afraid for her cousin—afraid of what would happen if something dreadful should overtake one of the men she loved.


	19. Evacuees from London

In early September, Meggie received a letter from Polly containing some surprising news.

_Mum and Lady Leah have kept in fairly constant contact throughout this war, and Lady Leah has asked Mum if she would consider taking some evacuee children in from some of the English cities. It isn't common for them to leave England, unless they have relatives overseas, but Lady Leah has enough influence that she knows she can get the authorities to make an exception in Mum's case. She says many people take children just to act as slave labor, and the ones who do have good intentions often don't know how to treat the children. She and Mr. Wright have their house full—seven children right now, plus Godwin, and she said Freddie's fiancée Jocelyn Reed had taken in a number on her father's estate, the one that's so close to Whitmore. However, many of the wealthier people, the ones with the capability to take children in, refuse, and the poor people who can barely afford to feed their own families are left with the surplus._

_Anyway, Mum and Dad talked about it all last night, after Lady Leah's letter came, and they agreed. Mum still has fond memories of all of her orphans from the Home, and Dad, of course, has a soft spot for any suffering child. Mum telegraphed Lady Leah today, and we are waiting to hear who we can expect. Tanglewood is easily large enough to hold half a dozen children._

_It will be nice to have children around the house. Perhaps I won't dwell so much on the horrors happening overseas with young voices echoing through the halls again. Meggie, don't you sometimes feel as though we were ancient, as though our youth was forever behind us?_

Meggie was delighted to think that Auntie Di was going to be taking in evacuee children. The news from France and England had been so dreadful all summer, even worse for the Samuels, as they were so close to Lady Leah and Jack Wright. Auntie Di had complained often about feeling helpless—"This is why I wanted to be a VAD during the first war," she snapped at one point. "So I could actually do something useful beside _knit_!"

That same day, Meggie had another letter from Jocelyn Reed herself. The two had corresponded occasionally over the summer, and were "Jocelyn" and "Meggie" to one another now, rather than the formal "Miss." Jocelyn had been horrified to hear of Peter's capture, and some of her British reserve fell away when she tried to convey her sympathy to Meggie.

_Dear Meggie,_ Jocelyn wrote,

_I wish I could become a nurse. I wish I could do something besides nursemaid dozens of whiny children who only want to go home, and who are too stupid to understand why they can't. Oh, it's dreadfully unpatriotic of me to speak so. I know that I'm doing more good here, taking care of the estate, which provides food and clothing for our soldiers, and taking care of these children, than I could as a nurse. I should be dreadful as a nurse anyway—I lack compassion._

_I just want to be active. I feel helpless, trapped here, living very much the same life I did before the war. I look at these London children, and I see myself as they do—rich, pampered heiress, who understands nothing of the true hardships of life. I want to know those hardships, Meggie. I want to prove to myself that I am something more._

_I should be ashamed to tell you such things about myself, but somehow I'm not. I could tell Peter them—and writing to you is very much like writing to him. I never could explain any of this to Freddie. He has improved since joining the Navy, but sometimes I wonder if we ever even spoke the same language. Our thoughts are so very different._

_Which is why I wrote to him today dissolving our engagement. I've known for years that I'd have to do it eventually. It just didn't seem worthwhile before the war—and once he joined up, I thought it would be cruel to break things off._

_It isn't though, not really. He's never even pretended to care for me, and I daresay he'll be relieved to find himself free. Lady Leah won't like it, but I shan't tell her—I'll shirk something for once in my life and make Freddie admit it. It will be good for him._

_Again, I can't quite believe I'm telling you all this—you whom I've never met. I wonder if that makes it easier?_

_Yours,_

_Jocelyn._

Meggie set the letter down thoughtfully. Before Peter's capture, she would have wondered what Jocelyn's decision to end things with Freddie would mean to him. He'd always spoken of her with such reverence, and he'd never thought Freddie good enough for her.

Now, though, that was irrelevant. Peter was in God's hands, and she had a private voice lesson with Ms. Lea in fifteen minutes.

When Meggie had received her class schedule this term, she had been surprised to see private voice instruction every Tuesday and Thursday with Ms. Lea. She thought only the senior students received private training, but Ms. Lea told her at their first lesson that she had been impressed enough by Meggie's voice at the concert last spring that she thought it worthwhile to give her extra training now.

"What with the war going on, we can't ever be sure how long our students will stay," she said crisply. "It's not like it used to be, where once a person enrolled, he or she was here until the end. Now, nobody knows what will happen, and I don't want to squander talent like yours."

Meggie had been shyly pleased at her teacher's high opinion. Ms. Lea was a strict taskmaster, but already Meggie felt her voice blossoming under the expert tutelage.

School was good in other ways, too. Professor Ashton was back, looking somehow cheerful despite Will's absence. Rose was her usual madcap self, full of stories of her wild adventures in Colorado that summer. Connie made an excellent replacement as a roommate for Merrill, and even Samantha seemed better than usual.

"I'm really going to focus on my studies this year," she informed them. "My grades were dreadful last year, and while it's not necessary for me to do well, I would be embarrassed to do so poorly again. We are not accustomed to such failures in our family."

Which Meggie accurately interpreted as Samantha's grandmother had made her life miserable over the low marks.

Matty was settled back in, too, but far less contentedly than Meggie. He had been able to push his love for farming to the back of his mind over the winter, but the summer had made it all real to him again. It was hard for him to set himself seriously to studying, when all he really wanted was to be back home.

"I said one more year and I meant it," he told Meggie grimly on their first Sunday. "But I don't think I'll be able to do any more after this—I don't care how much Mama wanted an education."

Meggie wasn't so sure about her own feelings. Of course she missed Green Gables—but she had to admit that it was nice to be back in the bustle and whirl of the Conservatory.

"It sounds disloyal to say it," she confessed to Rose one day. "I love my home—but it does seem dull sometimes. I don't think I'd like to live in a city forever, and I really do enjoy the peace and quiet of the country, but for right now, I'm enjoying the different lifestyle."

"If Hawk has his way, you'll have to get used to living in the city," Rose said, her eyes twinkling. "I don't think famous opera singers and writers can live buried away in the country, no matter how much they want to."

"I am not going to sing opera," Meggie said, refusing to dignify Rose's allusion to Hawk's intentions with a response. "Ms. Lea says my voice is not suited for it—she says that while I am an adequate _spinto soprano_ my voice is far better suited to concert singing than operatic—ballads and love songs and even some jazz."

Rose opened her eyes very wide. "But Meggie—what will Hawk do without you as his muse?"

"Stop teasing her, Rose," Connie said. She had entered the room moments before, just in time to hear Rose's comments.

Rose relented. "I'm sorry, dearest," she said, giving Meggie an impulsive hug. "I know you don't like to be teased about your Hawk, and you certainly are proper enough to make anyone think you hardly care for him, but he practically invites teasing!"

It was true. While Meggie fought desperately to keep her perspective, Hawk seemed determined to lose no time in sweeping her off her feet. He sent her flowers every day, spoke of her publicly (as Rose had mentioned) as his "muse," showered her with compliments, begged her to come to Aunt Alice's every Sunday for dinner … Meggie wasn't sure whether she should be flattered or alarmed.

Meggie did like Hawk, but she knew her feelings were nowhere near as deep as his. She tried to tell him that, gently, but he became so distressed at the first mention of it that she never brought it up again.

She thought that perhaps the difference in the intensity of their feelings was merely caused by age. Hawk was almost seventeen, and she was only fifteen. Probably, she told herself, by the time she was seventeen she'd care for him just as much as he did for her.

* * *

Auntie Di's children came in due time—a brother and sister, two unrelated boys, and one young pregnant woman whose husband was fighting the Nazis.

_Little Avery is a darling,_ Polly wrote soon after their arrival. _She has tangled blond curls and big brown eyes and has taken to following me around as soon as I get home from school every day. I even let her sleep with me, because she has such bad nightmares when she's alone. She doesn't talk much about her family, but from the little things she does say I think she has an older sister around my age who is a nurse, and whom she misses very much._

_Her brother, Selwyn, is about nine, two years older than Avery, and has clearly designated himself Mother's protector. He follows her like Avery does me. Mother loves him, and I can already see there will be problems when they have to go home at the end of the war._

_The other two boys, Roger and Daniel, are sturdy, stolid little chaps, and hardly likely to say one word—although I've seen a look in Roger's eye occasionally that makes me uneasy. I think he resents being sent away from home, and I suspect he's just biding his time to get revenge on us. I only hope he doesn't decide to burn the house down! Still, if anyone can win him over it's Mum. She has such a wonderful way with children—I never really appreciated it before, I suppose because I was the child in question._

_Our other guest is named Melinda. I don't like her—she seems bent on making everyone feel sorry for her, as if we didn't have any troubles of our own! She doesn't seem to appreciate Mother's no-nonsense ways, and spends much of her time away from the house, which is fine by all of us. She's been going over to Green Gables lately, but don't worry, Meggie, I'm sure Uncle Shirley is far too sensible to fall for her fluttering eyelashes and whimpering voice._

Meggie dropped the letter. How could Polly insinuate—_that_? Why, it was even worse than the idea of Papa marrying Aunt Una! As if he could ever be interested in _another man's_ wife. To be sure, Polly had assured her that he wouldn't fall for her, but eve the thought that Meggie would need reassurance on such a point seemed almost an insult. Everyone knew that Papa was still in love with Mama. He himself had told the twins years ago that he would never love again.

Meggie still remembered the day he had shown them Cecily's wedding dress. He had cried, even though she had been dead for almost thirteen years. He'd given Meggie a bracelet that had been Cecily's, which she only wore for the most special occasions. The deep blue lapis lazuli in it, he had said, were almost as beautiful a blue as Cecily's eyes.

Matty had received her engagement ring. Meggie supposed he had it tucked away somewhere, waiting until the time he fell in love—if indeed that would ever happen. Somehow it was impossible to imagine Matty falling in love.

Just thinking about her mama—universally beloved, the center of her papa's world—made Polly's concerns about this Melinda fade into the background. It ceased to be an annoyance and instead became almost laughable. Meggie picked up pen and paper and wrote back,

_I'm sorry you have to deal with Melinda, Polly dear, but don't be alarmed about Papa. It's not just that he's too sensible—he's too in love with Mama._

Meggie paused. Would she ever feel that way? Love someone so deeply that her love would survive past the other's death? She certainly hoped so.

Could she care about Hawk that much? She didn't know—but she was suddenly willing to try. A love like Papa and Mama's was not something you passed up the chance for.


	20. Sweet Sixteen

"Meggie darling, can you believe that you're sixteen today? Does it really seem possible?"

Meggie turned from the window to smile dreamily at Connie, whose pretty amber eyes were sparkling with excitement. "Who cares about turning sixteen when one has … that," she waved a hand at the vista, "to see? Oh girls, don't you just love spring?"

"She'll care about being sixteen tonight, when Hawk takes her to dinner," Samantha told Connie.

But Meggie had turned back to the window and wasn't listening. It had been a long, hard winter; a winter marked by enemy victories that seemed immense, and very little good news. Nobody had heard anything yet of Peter—most of the family was starting to believe he was dead. Even Polly had given up hope. Only Auntie Di and Meggie still believed he was alive and just biding his time before escaping.

Germany was still attacking England … more and more countries were joining the Axis … even when the Nazis started to back off England it was to focus grimly on Russia … only in North Africa were things looking remotely hopeful.

Letters from the front sounded forcibly cheerful. Jane was now in the ATS and was personal driver to a general, whose name she could not divulge.

_Aunt Irene was horrified when Dad taught me to drive the car—now she's convinced I'll be killed in an attack against the general. Mum has warned me to be on my guard against any "improper advances" and Lyssa wants to know if I will get a medal at the end of the war. The general's really an old duck, though. He likes to hear me talk about Lantern Hill and all my friends there and the escapades we used to have. He's old enough to be my grandfather—and as I never knew either of my real grandfathers, I have adopted him (without telling him so, of course). Mum really needn't worry!_

When Jane wasn't chatting about her general, though, her other news was grim. Civilian casualties were a commonplace occurrence. Morale was low. People were starting to disbelieve the Nazis could ever be defeated.

Bran's scrawls weren't much better—just brief notes to let them know he was all right and fighting for them all. He assured Auntie Di is every letter that the enemy would never defeat England—not as long as he was flying for them.

Jocelyn, in addition to keeping evacuated children, had turned the Reed estate into a convalescent home for wounded soldiers. She herself wasn't doing any of the nursing, but she oversaw everything, and told Meggie that bossing the nurses gave her more pleasure than almost anything else.

_Especially the Sisters,_ she wrote gleefully. _The nurses are terrified of them, and yet they have to answer to me! They know that if I disapprove of them, off they go to work in a field hospital, so they bite their tongues and glower at me under their caps. I know I'm wicked to feel such pleasure in their discomfort, but really, if I can't fight the Nazis, who can I fight? I have to be nice to the children or they cry._

Will's training was over, and he was off to North Africa. He only wrote occasionally to Meggie (and always called her Meg, a shortened version of her name she found oddly endearing), and his letters were invariably cheerful, though he sometimes let a more serious note creep in. Meggie always appreciated his letters; she felt braced after reading them, more fit to handle the world. She supposed that was just part of Will's personality—one of the reasons he wanted to be a minister, because he was so good at encouraging others without even trying.

To Canadians wearied by cold weather and grim war news, April brought even more hope than it usually did—or so it felt to Meggie. She hardly cared that this was her sixteenth birthday. The green film on the trees outside, the daffodils poking their brave, cheerful heads from the ground, the birds singing sweetly to each other (even in Toronto!) and building their nests … these were wonders that were new every year. How could a mere sixteenth birthday compare?

"Honestly Meggie," Samantha said now, tugging her away from the window. "It's Saturday, and it's your birthday. Now, I know Hawk is taking you out for a special dinner tonight, but what are you going to do with the rest of your day?"

Meggie allowed her roommates to bring her back to earth. "I don't know," she shrugged. "Matty and I always try to spend our birthday together, but he's on some special trip for school this weekend. Hawk will be by this afternoon—he has something planned before dinner—but for this morning, I'll probably just go to the park and enjoy the spring, pretend I'm back in Avonlea."

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Oh, _Meggie_. You can't spend your sixteenth birthday like you would any other day! You have to do something special!"

"Like what?" Meggie laughed.

"Go shopping," Samantha suggested promptly.

Meggie wrinkled her nose.

"Go to a concert," Connie offered.

"By myself?" Meggie said.

The two girls looked at each other, momentarily stymied.

"Where's Rose?" Samantha said. "She's always good at concocting schemes."

"Thank you, but I prefer not to spend my birthday in trouble," Meggie interjected."

"My schemes aren't always trouble," Rose herself announced, entering the room with a covered tray. "Sometimes they are perfectly delightful. Happy birthday, Meggie darling." She set the tray down on her bed and removed the lid with a flourish. Four enormous cinnamon buns lay steaming on the tray.

"Ooh," Connie sighed. "Where did you get these?"

Rose wrinkled her nose. "That is my secret," she said mysteriously. "Now, eat up, girls, we have a full day ahead. Margaret, my child, you're still in your robe! Why aren't you dressed?"

Meggie's mouth was too full of cinnamon bun to answer, so she merely shrugged eloquently.

"Well, I want everyone in something comfortable and practical—but of course, we still must look glamorous. Think Katharine Hepburn."

"In which one of her films?" queried Samantha, frowning before her closet as she tried to determine what she had that could be considered practical.

Rose waved an airy hand. "Any of them. _Holiday, Bringing up Baby, The Philadelphia Story_ …"

"You go to the cinema too much, Rose," Connie observed. She was already dressed for the day in a neat brown skirt and short-sleeved ivory blouse. Rose ignored the criticism, eyed Connie narrowly, and darted into one of her drawers for a pine green scarf.

"There," she said, arranging it around Connie's neck. "You're ready. Sammy dear, how are you coming?"

Samantha pulled out a sapphire-colored skirt and ruffled white blouse. "How will this do?"

"Too elaborate," Rose objected. "No rayon for this outing!"

Samantha looked at her skirt in dismay. "But I don't know what else will do."

"Here," Meggie offered, swallowing the last bite of cinnamon bun and entering into the spirit of things. She smiled chummily. "Now it's my turn to offer you my wardrobe." She handed Samantha a neat cotton skirt of deep blue and a blue and white checked blouse. "My Aunt Faith gave these to me last year when Lily was weeding out her wardrobe for Redmond, but blue doesn't really suit me at all. Can you stand wearing a style that's a year old?"

Samantha's eyes glimmered with a hint of fun. "Well, we are in a war, so I suppose I must make sacrifices."

"Bravo!" Rose applauded. "Now, I'm wearing pink, so Meggie, you'll have to wear something that's neither pink, brown, nor blue, so we won't all match. And, of course, you have to look the nicest, because it's your birthday. What are our options?"

Meggie shook her head. "Except for my darling gold frock from Auntie Nan that I'm wearing for my date with Hawk, I don't have anything terribly nice—especially not that's practical as well."

"Nonsense!" Rose scolded busily, rummaging through Meggie's clothes. "You just don't look at them with a _connoisseur's _eye, that's all. Ah-ha! I knew I'd find something!" She triumphantly brandished one of Meggie's older skirts, a deep green cotton.

"That?" Meggie asked doubtfully. She loved that skirt—it was very comfortable—but she didn't see how it could count as "glamorous."

"With this," Rose shook out a crisp white blouse with a perky bow at its neck and ruffled sleeves, "and this," adding a tailored green plaid vest to the mix. "Now you'll look just like Katharine Hepburn, or maybe even Myrna Loy."

"All you need is William Powell and Asta," Connie commented dryly.

"I think she'll settle for Hawk," Samantha giggled.

Rose ignored them. "Hurry girls, hurry! We don't want to be late!"

"Late for what?" Connie demanded, pulling her hat on.

"That," Rose said mysteriously, "will be revealed in time."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, four girls stood in line for a sightseeing tour of Toronto's harbor and islands aboard an old-fashioned steamboat.

"Rose," said the one in green, "This is just perfect."

"What did I tell you?" cried the tiny pink one. "Who said all my schemes were trouble?"

"I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop," said the tall, striking one with the magnificent red-brown hair and amber eyes.

The one in blue sighed and touched her hair. "I wish you'd warned me, Rose, sea air does _dreadful_ things to my curls." She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a blue scarf, which she quickly tied over her head.

"This is Lake Ontario, Sammy, not the sea," Connie explained patiently.

Samantha sniffed. "It's the _principle_."

Despite the year and half that Meggie had been in Toronto, she had never yet visited the harbor. She and Matty saved most of their excursions for the parks, and Hawk gravitated more toward the museums and galleries. Though a lover of the land, Meggie still felt something of that wild pull at her soul when she heard the seagulls cry and smelled the fresh air—not quite the sea, but still different from anything inland. She smiled. A harbor tour with her three closest friends really was the perfect way to spend the day.

Especially since _her_ curls remained unaffected by water in the air. The only thing being on the lake would do for her was put a brighter color in her cheeks. Hawk was taking her someplace very special later, and she wanted to look her best.

Meggie and Hawk's relationship was galloping ahead. Ever since the day when Meggie had decided she wanted a love like Shirley and Cecily had, she had put aside her misgivings regarding Hawk. He continued to work at sweeping her off her feet, and she gladly allowed it. She spent every Sunday with him and Aunt Alice, sometimes accompanied by Matty, though often not. Matty claimed to be happy for his twin, but he had more and more of a tendency to withdraw when she and Hawk were together. Meggie supposed that was the natural outgrowth of a new, all-consuming relationship. It saddened her, but she didn't think there was anything she could do about it.

Hawk had even invited her to spend Christmas with his family, but even in her infatuation Meggie couldn't agree to that. To not spend Christmas with Papa and Matty! It was unthinkable. She had suggested that maybe she could spend some of her summer in Montreal instead, and Hawk seemed content with that.

If she was truly honest with herself, Meggie had to admit that there was still _something_ missing in her relationship with Hawk. She didn't know what it was, but something was lacking.

Still, as far as everyone else was concerned, she and Hawk were the perfect couple, and most of the time Meggie agreed.

The steamboat tour was delightful—even Samantha had to admit that. Fort York, across the way, looked romantic and strong. The Toronto Islands were charming, and the other passengers aboard the boat looked as though they found the four schoolgirls as enjoyable as anything else. Rose, of course, drew all eyes instantly toward her with her bright ways and outlandish statements that threw everyone in earshot into helpless giggles. Samantha garnered almost as many admiring glances, especially from the few young men on a crew, and even Connie came in for her fair share. Only a few, very discerning folk, noticed Meggie, sitting quietly amongst her three chattering friends, with her brown eyes fixed dreamily on the horizon and her slim hands clasped demurely in her lap.

Only a few sensed that this girl, somehow, was not quite the same as her friends.

"The fairies gathered 'round her cradle," one elderly woman with a thick Scotch accent said.

"A blessing or a curse?" inquired her companion whimsically.

The old woman peered at Meggie. "Ah now, that depends on the lass."

Rose insisted on treating them all to lunch after the boat, and couldn't resist announcing to all and sundry at the café that it was Meggie's birthday, at which point the waitresses sang to her, and all the other customers wished her a happy birthday before leaving.

"Really, Rose!" Meggie protested with scarlet cheeks.

"Sweet sixteen and never been kissed!" Rose crowed.

One middle-aged gentleman who reminded Meggie slightly of Uncle Jem stopped by their table. "With a face like that, it won't take long," he said wisely.

Meggie put her hand to her face.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about," Samantha assured her. "Nobody expects a country girl like you to have been kissed before sixteen."

"That's not what embarrasses me," Meggie said. "It's even thinking about kissing and the like!"

"You'd better start thinking about it," Connie advised. "I'm sure Hawk is."

Meggie's cheeks flamed anew, and Rose, with unusual sensitivity, changed the subject.

Still, Meggie was nervous all while preparing for her date. The gold-colored satiny dress Auntie Nan had sent her as a sixteenth birthday present didn't delight her anywhere near as much when she buttoned up the front and gazed at her reflection in the mirror as it had done when she first tried it on. Then, she had barely waited to throw away the brown paper packaging before admiring the way the soft folds draped her form and made her look truly _grown-up_. Now she wondered if she wasn't growing up too quickly.

Samantha and Connie were both out, and only Rose noticed her troubled face. "Don't worry, dear," she said, picking up Meggie's hairbrush and bringing it through Meggie's curls with slow, soothing strokes. "This date will be perfect."

"Rose—do you think it's childish of me not to want to kiss anyone yet?"

Rose considered. "I think it's lovely," she answered finally. "Not that there's anything wrong with kissing, or holding hands, but I think it's a beautiful thing when someone is actually willing to wait for the right one." She paused. "Do you think Hawk is the right one for you, Meggie?"

"I'm sure of it," Meggie said, but her voice lacked conviction. "That is, I can't imagine how he could _not_ be."

Rose nodded wisely. "Well, until you know for sure, it wouldn't hurt to wait." She laughed. "Just don't tell Sammy, or she'll think you're crazy!"

Thus reassured, Meggie returned to her primping with renewed enjoyment, and when she met Hawk, she only felt the familiar nervous thrill that ran through her every time she saw him.

"You look …" he shook his head. "Beautiful is too ordinary a word."

As usual, Meggie blushed. "Thank you," she said shyly.

Hawk held out his arm. "Shall we go?"

It _was_ a perfect date. Hawk took her to an afternoon performance of _La Boheme_. Though Meggie was not an opera singer herself, she fully appreciated the beauty of that type of music, and she listened to _Mi Chiamano Mimi_ with tears in her eyes.

"Someday," Hawk said to her afterward, "I will write you an opera that makes people weep."

Such statements usually made Meggie thrill down to her toes, but for some reason this day it fell flat. Thankfully, Hawk didn't notice.

After the opera, they went to a very fancy restaurant, the likes of which Meggie had rarely been in before. Grandmamma Irving, she was sure, would approve. Grandmother Blythe, on the other hand, would likely prefer a home-cooked meal with family all around. _That_ was the difference between Meggie's two grandmothers.

After the meal they loitered through the park, Meggie enjoying the soft spring evening and Hawk enjoying Meggie. He had already determined that he was going to ask her to marry him as soon as she turned eighteen. He had known almost from the moment they met that they were meant to be together. He knew things would always be like this—the two of them strolling romantically down the streets, going to operas and concerts, mingling with the rich and famous. He would be a famous opera composer himself, of course, and Meggie would be not only his muse, but also the star soprano of his best works. He knew that right now she preferred simpler music, but he was sure that would change the more time they spent together.

Unfortunately for Hawk (or perhaps fortunately), he couldn't see Meggie's thoughts. While he was planning their future life and blissfully imagining her doing the same thing, she was back in Avonlea with Matty and Peter, Bran and Polly, going on a picnic to Echo Lodge. Romance was the last thing on her mind.

Keeping in mind her conversation with Rose, she did allow Hawk to kiss her cheek as they separated back at the Conservatory. She couldn't help but be disappointed—she thought it would be thrilling, but she didn't feel anything at all when he kissed her.

Sweet sixteen! Right then she felt about ten—tired and wanting her brother and Papa. By the time she had climbed the stairs and entered her room, where her roommates were waiting to pounce on her with questions, she had almost forgotten all about her date, and was instead looking eagerly forward to the next day, when she would finally see Matty and be able to spend time with him. They didn't do enough together these days, and she needed her twin. She didn't feel complete without him.


	21. Mailbag

_May 5, 1941_

_Tanglewood, Avonlea, P.E.I._

_Dear Meggie,_

_Roger ran away again yesterday. Dad and Uncle Shirley were both out in the fields, so Mother had to spend the day looking for him by herself—Melinda insisted that she couldn't _possibly_ exert herself enough to go hunt for him, not with the baby so close to coming. Mind, she never has any problems walking to Green Gables and back. _

_Back to Roger—he had claimed he was sick this morning, so I set off to school with the other three, leaving him comfortably ensconced in Bran's old room. Mother went up about an hour later, and he was gone. The window was open. You remember how Bran was always in and out through that window? That old pine tree that grows right next to his room is the perfect escape hatch. I had wondered about the wisdom of putting Roger in Bran's room, with his resentment against being here, but I didn't say anything. After all, I thought Mum knew best. She's been taking care of children for _years_._

_Daniel, Sel, Avery and I got back to Tanglewood after school to find Melinda sitting in the kitchen with her feet up, sipping tea out of one of Mum's best china cups. She comfortably informed us that "that little wretch Roger" ran off, and Mum was looking for him. I was furious with her—while poor Mother was out searching for a missing child, she was making herself comfortable. She hadn't even done anything toward making supper! I suppose she thinks that being four months pregnant exempts her from all manual labor._

_I left Avery with Melinda with some pretty sharp instructions as to what she could be doing while we were out, and the boys and I set out to find Mum. I don't like Melinda and make no attempts to hide it, and I think she's rather afraid of me, so I was sure she would do as I told her._

_Daniel and Sel were worn right out by the time we found Mum, and she was exhausted and worried sick. "Leah trusted these children to me," she mourned. "How can I ever tell her I lost one?"_

_I reminded her that Roger has run away before and we've always found him, but she wouldn't be comforted. I sent her back to Tanglewood with the boys and kept searching myself._

_I finally found him—or rather, Mr. Stuart, Jane's father, found him and met up with me. I was working my way along the shore (do you remember that picnic we had so long ago when we first met Jane?) and met them coming toward me. Roger's head was hanging right down to his toes. Mr. Stuart was gripping his hand quite firmly._

_"Yours, I believe, Miss Samuels?" he asked me calmly._

_I was so relieved and angry I almost started scolding Roger right then and there, but something in Mr. Stuart's face stopped me. "Lyssa and I were down at the harbor earlier, talking to old Timothy Salt, when we found this fellow. He was trying to find a ship's captain who could get him back to England. I think he was pretty discouraged, because when Lyssa recognized him he came with us without any argument."_

_I thanked him profusely and brought Roger the rest of the way back myself. I tried talking to him, but he wouldn't answer any of my questions. Mother was more sensible. As soon as we walked in, she hugged him, gave him a cup of hot cocoa, wrapped him in a blanket, and put him to bed, where she sat beside him and read from "Wind in the Willows" until he fell asleep._

_Poor lad! I know how he feels. If I could fly to Pierre right now I would, without thought for any consequence. I'm eighteen this year, Meggie—I've seriously considered going overseas as a nurse. Jane did it—why shouldn't I? Mum and Dad have the children now, so they don't need me to keep them company._

_I'm glad you'll be home soon, Meggie. I need your wise counsel._

_As always,_

_Polly._

Meggie folded up the letter thoughtfully. Would Polly really go overseas? It didn't seem possible—but, she reflected, it hadn't seemed possible until last summer that Peter could be captured. Now he was still missing, almost a year later.

Polly wasn't the only Blythe to turn eighteen this year. Lily had turned eighteen in February, and while she seemed content at Redmond for right now, Aunt Faith had been a VAD in the last war, so it wasn't inconceivable that her daughter would follow suit. Gil would turn eighteen in June, and Blythe in August. They all knew Blythe would join up on his birthday—he had already told his parents he would do so—and nobody knew about Gil. Uncle Ken had charged him to take care of the family, but Gil was aching to fight.

Meggie knew Auntie Di was worried about what would happen to Aunt Rilla if Gil did leave. She was functioning again now, able to participate in family affairs, but if her eldest son left, as well as her husband … she could regress faster than she had progressed.

It was all very troublesome.

_May 7, 1941_

_Somewhere in Africa_

_Dear Meg,_

_I'm glad you don't mind me sending you a scrawl once in a while. I still hold my memories of last summer with you folks as some of the best times in my young life. Don't tell Uncle Kip that, though. He'd take it personally, and I don't mean anything against him. He's the very best uncle and guardian a chap could have. But somehow, living in boarding houses and renting small homes just wasn't the same as staying in a _real_ home._

_Things are hot here. Lots of sand. Lots of bugs. Lots of disease. And did I mention it was hot? It's almost enough to make me think fondly of Milton. Not quite, though._

_Speaking of Milton, I had a very stern letter from Grandmother Thornton yesterday. She is quite cross with me for not doing more to distinguish myself. She insists that a Thornton must be respected in whatever aspect of life he walks, even something so vulgar as military. In vain do I protest that I've had no opportunity to distinguish myself. She claims that a Thornton makes his own opportunities. And then she tells me about her father-in-law, how he built the mill in Milton with his own hands, made it what it is today, gained the respect of every man in England …_

_She never mentions her mother-in-law, who was a businesswoman in her own right, and provided my great-grandfather with the money and the moral compass he needed. Grandmother looks at her as Great-Grandfather's one weakness. Her name was Margaret, too, and I think you would have liked her, at least from the stories I've always heard from Aunt Cass. She was—pure._

_Now on to my real news—something I think you will find exciting. Who do you suppose our unit's chaplain is but a Reverend Bruce Meredith? Yes, your very own Uncle Bruce. I had thought he looked familiar at prayers and services, but since I only met him that one time we were at your grandparents for the New Year—and we met many people that trip—I couldn't place him. Not until today, when he stopped by and chatted with some of my buddies and me. One of them told him that I wanted to be a minister once this war was over and he looked at me under those fierce black brows of his (did those eyes scare you when you were a child? They would have given me fits) and said, "Will Ashton? Now where have I heard that name—and seen that face?"_

_We puzzled over it for a few minutes, and eventually worked it out. He sends his best love to you (pardon—his best love goes to his wife and son, he says, but you get his best uncle love). I'm glad to get to know him; I think he'll be a tremendous help to me in my strivings toward God._

_For it is easy to forget God out here. Sometimes I think this is what hell must be like—all heat and disease and despair. We repulsed the attack on _[here the letter was censored]_ but we're all wondering how long we can really hold out._

_Keep praying for us, Meg. We need it. And while you're at it, thank God that he sent us Rev. Meredith. We need him, too. It couldn't have been easy for him to leave his wife and son—and maybe it's selfish, but I'm glad he did._

_Yours,_

_Will._

Meggie smiled and sighed at the same time. She was more than delighted that Uncle Bruce and Will had met, but she wished—oh, how she wished they were both someplace safer!

She tucked Will's letter into her top drawer. She must remember to not tell Hawk about it. Hawk didn't seem to mind her letters from her cousins, but he was oddly and unreasonably jealous of Will. Meggie couldn't understand it; Will seemed to her just another cousin. Hawk's blue eyes glittered angrily any time she casually dropped his name in conversation, though, so she had simply stopped mentioning him altogether.

Hawk … there was another worry. Meggie, when she was honest, knew that they did not have the same kind of love Shirley and Cecily had had. Perhaps Hawk felt it toward her, but she—well, sometimes she just felt _smothered_ by all his attention. Surely, if she truly loved him, she wouldn't feel like that?

Perhaps she would, though. Perhaps that was normal. More than ever, Meggie wished Cecily was still alive. Auntie Di, though a perfect duck, was not her mother, and Meggie felt shy about talking over such serious matters with anyone but a mother.

For now, she'd just have to muddle through as best she could.

_May 8, 1941_

_Reed Hall, Hertfordshire, England_

_Dear Meggie,_

_Does it bother you to speak of Peter? If it does, feel free to toss out this letter, for I am afraid it contains very little but him. I can't explain it, but I can think of nothing but him tonight, and after several fruitless hours of attempting to sleep, I have decided to write to you in hopes of working—whatever this is—out of my system._

_I could go downstairs and make myself a glass of warm milk, but then either Madden, our cook, will come in and scold me, or one of the nurses will find me and, depending on which nurse, either want to pour out her life woes or cower before me like a timid mouse. I have no patience for timidity—for I am really not such an ogre, and I have enough woes of my own that I have no time for anyone else's. Now that _does_ make me sound ogre-ish._

_Besides, I loathe warm milk. It is so insipid. I'd much rather pour myself a snifter of brandy to help me sleep, but I am afraid that we here at Reed Hall are still old-fashioned enough that such an act would never do. Sherry, perhaps, after dinner, but for a respectable young woman to drink brandy? Heavens, no._

_Peter—he is old-fashioned enough to fit in well here. I don't mean that disparagingly at all. He is old-fashioned in the very best sense of the word, in that he still holds true to the old notions of respect, honor, and, well, Doing the Right Thing. It is very popular to scoff at such "maudlin" ideals today, and I agree that many people talk about them too much (without ever actually acting upon them), but when someone quietly and firmly does what he knows to be Right, without letting himself or anyone else stand in his way, and yet without making a fuss over it—well, that's a rather remarkable person._

_I shall never forget when Freddie offered him the chance to stay in England and attend Oxford. Rather sweet of Freddie, now that I think of it. Of course, he claimed his main motivation was to have a chum at Oxford, but I think he really did want to do something good for Peter. It was, perhaps, the closest thing to a selfless act I have ever seen from our Freddie._

_But Peter—though he wanted to stay—though it was the fulfillment of all he'd ever dreamed of—he couldn't do it. To take Freddie up would mean turning his back on the values instilled by his mother and father. To live in Freddie's world would mean leaving his conscience behind in Canada. And to accept the careless offer of a portion of Freddie's wealth would seem like a slap in the face to all the hard work his parents had poured into his education._

_So he refused. I was so proud of him then, though he never told me his reasons. I could read them well enough on my own. And when we had a position open up on our grounds staff later, I convinced Father to offer it to Peter. I so wanted him to have his dream on his own terms._

_He's going to come home, Meggie. I'm not "fey" or any such nonsense—but I know this as strongly as I do my own name. He is not dead—the Nazis can't destroy such a one as him. He will survive this war, and he will return to us, to you and me. He must._

_And now I am suddenly so weary I can no longer hold pen in hand. Goodnight, dear friend whom I have never met. May this letter bring you hope, and not despair._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Jocelyn._

Meggie dropped the letter onto her bedspread without even noticing it leave her fingers.

"She loves him," she said aloud, not sure which stunned her more: the fact of Jocelyn's love for Peter, or that she, Meggie, recognized it so clearly. "That's why she ended things with Freddie. She loves Peter."

With that realization came another—not a blinding lightning flash of insight, but the slow awakening to a fact she had known for some time without _knowing_ that she knew it.

"And he loves her," she said softly, marveling.


	22. Gil Goes

And so it was June, and Meggie and Matty were suddenly back in Avonlea, a little stunned at how quickly the year had passed.

"Not quickly enough," Matty growled. "I already wrote to Grandmamma and told her I wasn't going back this fall. I'm going to stay here and work the farms with Papa and Uncle Patrick."

Meggie wasn't surprised at her twin's declaration, but she was saddened by it. She had pledged another year at the Conservatory, and she hated the thought of not having Matty nearby. The Fords were permanently settled in the Glen (or at least permanently settled until the war's end), so this would be her first year in Toronto with no family nearby.

"You will have Hawk, though," Matty reminded her innocently.

Meggie childishly stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed.

Green Gables was exactly the same as it had always been—comfortable and homey. Shirley's hair was a little grayer, but his brown eyes still shone warmly on his children, and the news that Matty was staying added an extra spring to his step.

"You never even hinted at such a thing," he told his son gravely, trying to sound stern.

"I wanted to surprise you," Matty said unexpectedly. "Besides," turning grave himself, "If this war lasts two more years I'll have to join up, I suppose. I don't want to have spent all my time in Toronto. If I have to go, I want to spend every minute I can at home."

"And if, God willing, you don't have to?"

Matty's smile flashed out in an instant. "Then I'll just get a head start on making Green Gables the most productive farm in the Maritimes."

If Green Gables was the same as always, though, everything at Tanglewood was different. Polly's nemesis Melinda, now five months pregnant, seemed everywhere. No corner was safe from her prying ways, except Uncle Patrick's study. Consequently, much of the family ended up sneaking in there to find peace.

Roger seemed resigned to his time in Canada, though Meggie thought she'd never seen such an unhappy boy. He took to Matty, though, and the older boy took him under his wing, letting Roger help with farm work and spending a great deal of time outside in the woods with him.

"Thank goodness Matty's home," Auntie Di said fervently, watching Matty jog across the fields with his small, devoted shadow following faithfully behind. "I was beginning to despair."

Daniel was a nice enough little chap, but Meggie could see that it was Avery and Selwyn who had really become part of the family. With their dark gold curls and enormous brown eyes, they were two of the most attractive children she'd ever seen, but their sweet spirits were what ultimately endeared them to all. Avery followed Polly around as faithfully as Roger did Matty, and Sel was rarely seen two steps away from Auntie Di. They called the elder Samuels "Mother Di" and "Father Patrick," and referred to Shirley as "Uncle Shirley."

"I know it's dreadful of me," Polly confided to Meggie, "But I can't help but wishing that something would happen so they could stay here forever. Not that I want their parents to be killed, of course, but if they could just … forget about the children, or something. Oh, I don't know! All I know is that Mum is happier with Sel than she's been since Peter went missing, and little Avery is a beam of sunshine that makes us all happier and warmer. I can't help but think that _they'd_ be happier here, too, than in a dingy old tenement building in London."

"Not if that's where their parents are," Meggie said softly.

Polly was thinner than she had been at Christmas, but her face was stronger and sweeter, as though adversity had refined her. She nodded ruefully. "I know. I'm just being selfish."

Polly hadn't said anything more to Meggie about wanting to go overseas as a nurse, and Meggie hoped her cousin had decided against it. Perhaps Avery and Sel would be enough to keep her in Avonlea.

"After all," as Auntie Di said firmly, "There is plenty of war work to be done on the home front!"

"Ronnie the Bren-Gun Girl" had recently become a national symbol, encouraging all women to take up the slack where the men had left jobs. Even sheltered Avonlea saw changes, with some of the local girls going off to the cities to work in factories.

"Odd," Shirley mused, "How they're all so eager to go off to the city to be patriotic and support their country, and none of them want to stay home and fill in for the farmhands who've gone overseas."

Uncle Patrick twinkled his eyes. "No, we'll be getting all the girls from the city who want to do that!"

Auntie Di was in charge of a local volunteer organization to put together care packages for the soldiers overseas. Polly was a member of the Red Cross. Seeing how busy they all were with war efforts, Meggie felt a pang. Was she being selfish for pursuing her musical education when there was more effective work she could be doing at home?

When she asked Shirley about it, however, he firmly disabused her of the notion.

"You are working for the future, Meggie-love," he said. "What everyone is doing here is for _now_. Certainly that's important, but it's also important to have goals and dreams for later, when the war is over. As long as you are doing what you love, nobody can fault you."

Nobody, Meggie thought contentedly, could comfort and reassure like her Papa.

* * *

Two days after his eighteenth birthday, Gil Ford joined the Air Force. Everyone expected Aunt Rilla to fall apart, but to their surprise she seemed perfectly calm and accepting.

"Gil discussed this with me before joining," she said. "He did it all openly and above-board. He told me that even though he promised his father to take care of us, he just couldn't stay at home while others were out there fighting in his place. He is strong, healthy, and ready to fight. How could I keep him behind when he believed so clearly he should go?"

"You were so upset when Ken left, though …" Auntie Di said tentatively.

"Of course! Ken already fought in one war, and I already had to go through the agony of waiting for him to return once. The thought of doing it again was unbearable. Besides, he gave me no hint, no warning, no time to prepare. Of course I was shattered then, but I assure you, I will not be so weak again." She pursed up her lips grimly. "I did not lose faith during the first war; I will not lose it now."

Auntie Di patted her hand. "You are an example to us all, Rilla."

The Blythes were all gathered at Ingleside for a farewell party for Gil. Even Auntie Nan and Uncle Jerry came, bringing with them Dee, more glamorous than ever, and Blythe, burning for the next few months to pass so that he too could join up.

"No namby-pamby Air Force for me, though," he teased Gil. "I'm gong to join the Army, with the real men."

Gil cuffed him. "I'll think of you slogging through the mud and languishing in the trenches when I'm an ace."

The two laughed, and the younger cousins all clustered around, all clamoring for souvenirs from the war. Meggie left the gathering by herself; she didn't have the heart to enjoy it. Perhaps it was her acquaintance with Hawk and his views on war, or perhaps it was the agony of Peter's disappearance, but she couldn't understand how her cousins could all treat the war so lightly. Didn't they know how dangerous it was?

Polly knew: she had stayed behind at Tanglewood with the refugee children and Melinda so Auntie Di could leave. She had confided to Meggie that if she heard anyone congratulating Gil on joining up she would throw back her head and start screaming.

All alone in Rainbow Valley, Meggie was startled to see a slender figure sitting by the brook. She looked closer and recognized the pale skin and midnight hair.

"Aunt Una! I thought you were with the rest, back at Ingleside."

Aunt Una rose to her feet, and Meggie realized anew how hauntingly beautiful she really was. "Too many memories," she said, with a small twist to her mouth. "I have spent the last year trying to finally leave the shadows of memory in the past and live in the light of today, and I am not eager to fall back into my old ways."

Meggie didn't fully understand what her aunt meant, but she grasped the gist of it. "I wonder," she said softly, "If our generation will have to see our sons and daughters—and nieces and nephews—off to war. Do you suppose the cycle will ever end?"

Aunt Una sighed and smiled. "Not truly, not in this world," she said sadly. "But I hope the peace we gain from this war will last longer than the last."

"You think we'll win, then?" Meggie wasn't sure why she asked that, except that Aunt Una sounded so certain.

"We must," Aunt Una said, looking almost like a prophetess. "We have no choice. If we lose, evil gains the whole world. No, Meggie, whatever price we must pay, it will not be too high to stop the evil, and stop it we will."

Meggie sat down on an old moss-covered log and gazed reflectively into the water. "I believe you—but my friend Hawk says that war is _always_ too high a price to pay, that there is always another way, and when he talks, I almost believe him, too."

Aunt Una sat beside her, dabbling her bare toes in the brook. "And what do you believe when no one else is talking—when it is just you?"

"That we're doing the right thing," Meggie said with sudden conviction.

Aunt Una smiled. "Then what does it matter what anyone else says?"

Meggie laughed. "I think I like to make things too complicated."

"Most of us do, at sixteen," Aunt Una said confidentially. "It gets easier as we grow older, though."

"Aunt Una, do you miss India?"

"What brought on that sudden change of subject?"

Meggie shrugged. "I don't know—I just wondered."

"In some ways," Aunt Una said, staring at the brook. "I was very free there—free to be myself, unbound by what other people thought or expected of me. I grew up in India, spiritually and emotionally, I mean. It was difficult settling back into the Glen. I fell back into my old ways easily enough, simply because that was how people expected me to act. I broke free once or twice—when I brought Katy home, for instance, but it was all too easy to slip into the shadows again."

"I think I understand a little," Meggie said. "At the Conservatory, I'm one Meggie, but as soon as I get home I become a different Meggie. And with Hawk I'm another Meggie altogether. It's not being a hypocrite, but …" she trailed off. "It's hard to explain."

"Trust me, I understand." Aunt Una pulled her feet from the water. "Will you take a bit of advice from an old spinster aunt?"

"No, but I'll take some from you," Meggie teased.

Aunt Una laughed. "It's good that you are growing now, that you are finding you have different sides. Just remember that by the time you are twenty, your character will have gotten its permanent bent, and any changes you want to make after that will be much harder. Your grandmother told me that once," she added in an aside. "So make sure you are choosing companions and situations that help form you into the woman you want to be, rather than letting circumstances choose for you. And if you find you don't like the person you are around certain people—stop spending time with them, hard as it may be. You'll never get to repeat this time in your life, so don't waste it."

"I'll remember," Meggie promised solemnly.

The sound of laughter drifted to them on the wind. Aunt Una looked toward the other end of the valley. "I suppose we ought to rejoin the party before anyone notices we're missing."

Meggie suppressed a sigh. "I suppose we should."

As Aunt Una put her shoes back on and they walked back, she said to Meggie, "By the way, Professor Ashton wanted me to tell you hello from him."

"When did you speak with him?" Meggie asked in surprise.

It almost looked like Aunt Una blushed, but in the dim light of the valley Meggie couldn't tell. "Oh, we write to each other on occasion. He's very lonely now that Will is gone. When I mentioned everyone was coming for a family party, he wanted me to pass greetings along to you."

"Well, tell him I'm looking forward to seeing him again, but not to his class," Meggie said.

Aunt Una laughed warmly. "I will."

Hand in hand, woman and girl walked back to the light and life of their family.


	23. Meggie Visits Montreal

Shirley hesitated before stepping off the train. "Are you sure you have everything you need, Meggie?"

"I'm sure, Papa," Meggie answered. She wasn't used to seeing her papa so nervous. In a way, it almost made her nerves regarding traveling to Montreal by herself fade. "It's only two weeks."

Shirley nodded. "Call me as soon as you get there. Remember to have the operator reverse the charges."

"I will," Meggie promised. She hated leaving the Island for any of her precious summer vacation, but she had promised Hawk she would visit, so away she was going. She would have preferred leaving from Avonlea, if she had to go at all, but her promised visit coincided with the family gathering at Ingleside, so she was leaving from the Glen.

"Not to worry, Shirley!" Mrs. Douglas reassured Shirley, pushing past him onto the train and sitting next to Meggie. "I'll keep an eye on her as far as the ferry, and I'm sure I can find some nice folks to take charge of her after that. We'll get her to her boyfriend's safely!"

Meggie winced at the thought of spending that much time with the abrasive Mrs. Douglas, but Shirley looked relieved.

"Well, thank you, Mary, that does make me feel better." He winked sympathetically at Meggie. "Have a good time, daughter. Don't forget to tell Mrs. Giraud hello from your aunt."

Mrs. Douglas laughed. "She'll be too busy spooning with her young man to tell anyone hello!"

Meggie flinched again. _Spooning?_

Mrs. Douglas's daughter, the shy, insignificant Una, blushed a little. "Really, Mother," she murmured.

Shirley finally stepped off the train, leaving Meggie helplessly trapped with Mrs. Douglas and Una.

"I love you," he mouthed wordlessly through the window.

"I love you too," Meggie replied, trying not to cry. Mrs. Douglas elbowed her.

"Now then, no need to have such a gloomy face! Anyone would think you didn't want to see your boyfriend! Even if you're a little homesick, at least you're not off to the war front like my two boys." She sighed dramatically. "I tried to tell Vance not to go, but he was determined to be a hero, just like Elliot. Now there's just me and Una left, and she's such a quiet little thing she might as well not be there at all!" She laughed good-naturedly at her blushing daughter. "You certainly took after your namesake more than you did me, I can tell you that, Una child."

"I think Aunt Una is wonderful," Meggie said warmly.

"Land child, I'm not running Una down!" Mrs. Douglas almost looked fierce. "I think the world of Una Meredith, and I always have. Mind, I can't deny that she's a little odd at times. Must be all that time she spent with the heathens in India."

"I don't think she's odd," Meggie said.

Mrs. Douglas raised an eyebrow. "No? Well, some folks say you're not all there, either. People always did say that your father should have married Una after the war, but I didn't agree. Two quiet people like that—why, you and your brother would never have learned to speak!"

Meggie actually laughed at that. "Mrs. Douglas, if Papa had married Aunt Una instead of Mama, Matty and I wouldn't be here. At least, not as we are now."

"Mercy, girl, don't go getting scientific on me." She poked Meggie in the side. "And don't go talking about babies and such around your boyfriend's family. Tricia Giraud might be a friend of Di Samuels, but the family she married into is mighty particular. You don't want them thinking you're _unladylike_."

"I'll try to remember," Meggie promised with a solemn face and dancing eyes.

Mrs. Douglas watched her suspiciously. "Deep," she muttered to Una. "Just like her father—deep."

* * *

Meggie was relieved when she finally parted from Mrs. Douglas and Una at the ferry. Mrs. Douglas tried to find someone "suitable" for Meggie to stick close to, but couldn't see anybody who lived up to her standards, so contented herself with a barrage of instructions and warnings—far more than Shirley had thought to give.

"Mind you're an Island girl!" she hollered as the boat pulled away. "Don't do anything to make the rest of us ashamed!"

Meggie saw Una tugging ineffectively at her mother's arm, and then, thankfully, the boat was gone. She was free to turn her thoughts to her rapidly-approaching visit.

In some ways, it was exciting to be sixteen and traveling on her own. It was even exciting to be visiting her … friend's house (Meggie couldn't quite bring herself to call Hawk her boyfriend, as Mrs. Douglas had). She would have preferred spending these two weeks in Boston with Rose, to be perfectly honest, but she was sure she would have a lovely time with the Girauds. If any of them were anything like Hawk's Aunt Alice, she might not even regret Boston!

She settled back in a deck chair and tried to remember everything Hawk had told her about his family. His mother, Tricia Giraud, had once worked with Auntie Di at the Home in Toronto. Then she met Blair Giraud on a visit to PEI (there was some family connection between them, but Meggie couldn't remember what, exactly), and they fell in love and got married. He was the son of famous actress Sara Stanley, who was a cousin to Mrs. Rev. Craig, and she (Sara Stanley, not Mrs. Rev. Craig) lived with them part of the year, when she was not at Golden Milestone, her home in PEI. Hawk's grandfather was dead.

Hawk was the oldest child, adopted by Blair and Tricia shortly after their marriage. After him they had three more children: Richard (whom Hawk called Rich), age twelve; Laurent (called Larry), age nine; and Sara (called Sally), age five. Hawk was very fond of his younger siblings, but he didn't seem to have that special bond with any of them that Meggie had with Matty.

Of course, none of them were his twin, either.

As for any other information regarding the Giraud family—Meggie could only recall that they were decadently wealthy, and the top of Montreal society. She knew, of course, from meeting her that Mrs. Giraud was very sweet and kind.

Suddenly nervous, Meggie hoped she would make a good impression. After all, the last time they had met, she hadn't been seeing Mrs. Giraud's son. What if they didn't approve of her for Hawk? What if they thought of her only as some silly county girl, hopelessly old-fashioned and provincial?

Meggie bit her lip and thought of her simple, pretty skirts and blouses packed in her valise. They were neat and smart and exactly appropriate for a student at the Conservatory, or a farm girl in Avonlea, but they wouldn't make much of an impression in high society Montreal. Nor, she was afraid, would she.

Well, she resolved, smoothing her yellow print skirt over her knees, she was the way she was, and if the Girauds didn't approve of her it would be just as well to find out now.

Despite her practical thoughts, a slight wrinkle of worry stayed on Meggie's forehead for the rest of her trip.

* * *

Most of the worry melted away when she finally stepped off the train in Montreal and saw Hawk's eager face through the crowd.

"Meggie!" he exclaimed, pushing through the people. "I thought you'd never arrive. How was your trip?"

"Long," Meggie admitted with a laugh. She tried not to think of how wrinkled and dusty and travel-worn she must look, especially compared with Hawk's immaculate shirt and sharply pressed slacks.

He took both her hands in his, gazing adoringly into her eyes. "You look wonderful. It seems forever since I've seen you."

Meggie blushed and pulled her hands away. "It's only been a few weeks," she pointed out.

"Yes, but it seems like longer." Hawk collected her bag and escorted her out of the station, where a gleaming black auto awaited them.

"Is this yours?" Meggie asked in awe.

"My family's, yes," Hawk said casually.

"Do you drive it?"

Hawk laughed. "No, of course not." He motioned to the uniformed man sitting in the driver's seat. "Meggie Blythe, meet Caleb Martin, our driver."

Meggie managed to keep her mouth from hanging open. _A driver?_ She smiled. "Hello."

He touched his cap brim. "Welcome to Montreal, Miss Blythe."

Hawk helped her into the auto and settled in next to her. "Home, please, Martin."

"Yes, Mr. Graham."

"How has your summer been thus far?" Hawk asked as they swept past opulent homes and lush parks and gardens.

"Restful," Meggie answered, tearing her eyes away from the window. "Except for our trip to Ingleside, of course, and even that was nice. It's always good to see the family. How have you been?"

"Lonely," he said significantly. He changed the subject. "Everyone's eager to meet you. Mother's changed the linens in the guest room five times, and Sally's filled every vase she can find with flowers from the garden. Rich and Larry are arguing over who's going to escort you to the dinner …"

"What dinner?" Meggie asked.

"Didn't I tell you? Mother's hosting a dinner in your honor Friday night, so all our friends can meet you." He grinned engagingly. "I've already told my brothers that _I_ will be escorting you, but they don't like to listen."

Meggie kept her face calm, revealing none of her tumultuous thoughts. A dinner in her honor? How was she supposed to appear before all of Montreal's elite? She hated large crowds, and never knew how to act around strangers. Besides, why should she meet all the Girauds' friends? It wasn't as if she and Hawk were _engaged_.

It felt slightly like she was going to be put on display.

"Father's away on a business trip," Hawk continued, serenely oblivious. "But he'll be back in time for the dinner, so he can meet you. And Grandmère has requested that I bring you up to her as soon as you arrive."

"Bring me up?"

"Grandmère injured her spine in the accident that took Grandpère's life, ten years ago. We had a lift installed in the house, and ever since she has lived on the top floor, only coming down for special occasions."

"How sad," Meggie said softly, thoughts of the uncomfortable dinner flying from her mind.

"She's still the heart of the family," Hawk said. "Even though she lives 'above' the rest of us, we're all up there almost continually. Father goes to visit as soon as he's home from a trip, Mother consults with her about all the household matters, I talk to her about my operas … and my life … and the younger three just go up to see her and talk to her."

"That's wonderful," Meggie said. "Grandparents are so important. Grandmother Blythe—and Granddad, are both, like you said, the heart of the family."

"What about your Irving grandparents?" Hawk asked.

Meggie shrugged. "We hardly ever see them," she hedged. In truth, she hardly felt as though she knew her Irving grandparents. Grandmamma was usually bullying or making them feel guilty, and Grandfather was so quiet and withdrawn it was hard to know him at all.

The auto pulled up in front of the largest house Meggie had ever seen—even bigger than Grandmamma and Grandfather's in Boston.

"We're home, Mr. Graham," the driver said.

"Thank you, Martin," Hawk said as he stepped out.

Meggie paused before following Hawk. She smiled at the driver. "Thank you, Mr. Martin."

He smiled back at her. "I'm just Martin, Miss Blythe. No need to 'Mister' me."

"Then please, call me Meggie."

Martin shook his head, still smiling. "Have an enjoyable stay, Miss Meggie."

Meggie's head turned from right to left as she followed Hawk through the house. Insensibly, although the house was impeccably decorated and spoke of wealth in every corner, she started to relax. Despite the fancy ornaments and the smartly-clad maids, the house still felt like a home. A far different home than that to which she was accustomed, of course, but still a home.

"Mrs. Thibault," Hawk said to a stately, grey-haired woman dressed in a navy frock and white apron, "Where is my mother?"

"Mrs. Giraud had to step out, Mr. Graham. She said she'd be back within the hour."

Hawk frowned. "I wanted her to meet Meggie. Meggie, this is Mrs. Thibault, our housekeeper."

"How do you do?" Meggie said nervously.

The majestic woman unbent enough to smile graciously. "Welcome to the Giraud home, Miss Blythe. Shall I have one of the maids show you to your room?"

"Not just yet," Hawk answered. "Since Mother's not here, I'll take Meggie up to see Grandmère now."

"Very well, Mr. Graham. I believe the other children are up there already."

Slightly breathless, Meggie let herself be swept up several flights of stairs until they stood before an old door. Hawk raised his hand and knocked.

The door flew open to reveal a young boy with bright blue eyes and a challenging expression, which changed to delight as soon as he saw Meggie.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "She's here!"

"Who is here, Larry?" called a voice from further within. Meggie caught her breath. Never, never had she heard such a voice. It was beyond description—rich, full, sweet, with all the beauty of the ages wrapped inside it. If ever a voice had personality, that one did.

Hawk smiled at her. "Grandmère was once reckoned the finest actress in Europe. It was said that kings would give their crowns for one word from her lips."

"It's Hawk's girlfriend!" Larry called back, his eyes never leaving Meggie. "Hawk said you were beautiful," he told her, sounding disappointed.

Hawk turned dark red with fury and embarrassment, but Meggie just laughed. "He must have confused me with some of my roommates," she said lightly.

"Well," Larry said, apparently charmed by her laugh. "I like you, anyway." He stepped back and let them enter.

Seated in a high-backed chair in the middle of the room, with a small girl on her lap and a boy slightly taller than Larry kneeling at her side, was the owner of the Voice. Meggie knew it had to be her.

Her hair was snow-white, though her face and eyes were quite young. Her mouth, though a little too wide for beauty, was poppy-red, and her slightly slanted eyes were a brilliant hazel. Her face was long and white, nearly the same shade as her hair, and her eyes and mouth provided the sole color in her face. Looking at her, though, Meggie loved her from the first.

"So," she said, and her voice provided all the colors her appearance lacked, "This is Meggie Blythe."

"How do you do, ma'am," Meggie said shyly.

Grandmère laughed. "I am no 'ma'am,' Meggie. Please, call me Grandmère, as the other children do. And how is Prince Edward Island these days?"

"Wonderful," Meggie said warmly.

"Just the same as always, then." Grandmère sighed happily. "I shall never forget my days on the Island … when our feet walked the golden road. Goodness knows we are old enough now, but then we were immortal. Sometimes I still see us as such: Bev and Felix, one lean and handsome, the other fat and plain; Dan with the enormous mouth and ferocious temper; Felicity of the beautiful hair and remarkable stupidity; handsome Peter following her every step; drab little Sara Ray, crying over everything; and our beloved Cecily." She shook her head, bringing herself out of her reverie. "I understand Peter is your minister in Avonlea?"

"Yes, he and Mrs. Craig are very kind," Meggie said. "Mrs. Craig is the best cook in the hamlet."

"Does she ever make cherry tarts?" Grandmère demanded. "Those were her specialty."

"Oh yes," Meggie assured her. "Everyone has asked her for the recipe, but she only gives it to a chosen few. And even those can't make them like she does. The only thing she refuses to make are rusks, and nobody can understand why."

Grandmère shook with silent laughter. "Someday I'll tell you why, my dear. It's a grand story, though I shouldn't tease Felicity for it. Goodness knows I have made enough cooking mistakes in my life, at least until I gave up the attempt. When Laurent asked me to marry him, I agreed only on the condition that we always have a cook, so I would never have to try. He agreed, and I'm certain it kept our marriage happy. If he had been forced to eat my cooking, he would have died long before he actually did, or would have left me for a French _chef_."

"Nobody would have left you," the taller of the two boys assured her. He stood up and offered his hand to Meggie. "I'm Rich."

"Pleased to meet you," Meggie said, shaking his hand. Rich was as dark as Larry was fair; even his skin had a dusky hue. He was very handsome, but he lacked his younger brother's spark.

The girl scrambled to her feet as well. "And I'm Sally!" she piped.

Meggie squatted down until she was eye level with the mite. "I'm glad to know you, Sally."

Sally had Rich's dark hair and Larry's blue eyes, and was the only one of the children to bear her grandmother's curving red mouth. She was adorably squeezable, and, so Meggie suspected, more than a little spoiled.

A chime clock on one of Grandmère's bookshelves chimed the hour, and Grandmère looked at the children. "It's almost time for dinner, so you'd best be off to clean up. Hawk, thank you for bringing your Meggie up to meet me. My dear," this to Meggie herself, "I'm sure we'll have plenty of opportunity to talk later. I want to know all about you."

With that, the children exited as one, pulling Meggie with them. Once out in the hall, Hawk shooed them away until he and Meggie were alone again.

"What did you think?"

"I think she's wonderful," Meggie answered, still struck by that vibrant personality, filled with the joy of simply being alive.

"Did you see her shelves? And the pictures on her walls? Everything she has she's collected from her travels around the world, or else were gifts from royalty and other notable people. Some of the pictures are by her father, who was an extremely talented artist, even if he never became famous."

Meggie had been so interested in Grandmère herself that she hadn't even noticed her surroundings. She recognized, however, that to an artist like Hawk, setting was everything. No person was complete until he was in his proper setting.

And what, the next question fell naturally, did Hawk consider her proper setting? Meggie knew it was Green Gables … but she feared Hawk believed it to be a luxurious Montreal home.


	24. High Society

Meggie found her time at the Girauds' to be both better and worse than she had anticipated. Better, in that Hawk had been right about his family adoring her: from the moment she met them, his siblings and parents seemed utterly charmed. Worse, in that she couldn't help but feel stifled under all this admiration. Her happiest hours were when she could slip off upstairs to visit Grandmère. The former Sara Stanley was refreshingly direct and matter-of-fact about life. She understood the wealth that so overwhelmed Meggie, but she wasn't dazzled by it.

"I have often said," she declared to Meggie one afternoon, "That my happiest years were those spent with my King aunts and uncles in Carlisle. None of them had much money, but oh, how rich we all were in love! I would never have developed such character had I spent those years in Montreal, living with servants and perhaps a governess. I adored traveling about with Father—I wouldn't trade _those_ years for anything—but when I think of Heaven, I picture a rambling old farmhouse with an ancient orchard out back."

"Sometimes I think Hawk doesn't even realize the difference between the way we live," Meggie confessed. She was sitting curled up at Grandmère's feet. Hawk had been "struck with inspiration" as he put it, and was frantically working out a complicated musical arrangement in the music room downstairs. The other three were out for a walk, and Mrs. Giraud was downstairs preparing for the special dinner that night. "He is so accustomed to having maids, and a housekeeper, and a driver, and all the rest, that he doesn't even realize most people don't have such things! As long as I can remember it's just been Papa, Matty, and me. Papa drives a battered old truck that breaks down as often as it runs, and we have farmhands who help out around harvest, but that's it. Once in a while Auntie Di has a girl come in to help with canning and such, but even she and Uncle Patrick—and they're considered wealthy by Avonlea standards!—don't have all this."

"When this is all you grow up with," Grandmère swept her hand around the elegant room in a comprehensive motion, "it is difficult to imagine anything else. Hawk could well picture people so poor they live on the streets, but a comfortable middle class is beyond his experience." She smiled at Meggie. "You've been very good for him, my dear; you've opened his eyes to a new world."

Meggie sighed. "If only I didn't keep feeling like he wanted to take me out of that world," she mourned. Then she blushed, realizing to whom she spoke. "I didn't mean …" she stammered.

Grandmère laughed. "Don't fret, child, I understand. Hawk is very single-minded, and very determined. I imagine he had your entire future life planned out, and is so certain that it's the way things must be that he hasn't even bothered discussing it with you or hearing your thoughts on the matter. Am I right?"

Meggie looked down at the floor, picking at some non-existent threads in the carpet. "I'm only sixteen," she said, feeling dreadfully bold for even speaking of such matters. "I'm not ready to think about marriage, and that far into the future. Hawk seems to think everything is settled, but I just want to let our relationship develop naturally." She looked up into Grandmère's sweet face. "Does that make me dreadfully childish?"

Grandmère cupped her palm around Meggie's cheek. "Not at all, dear one. It makes you sensible—and that, perhaps, is why you and Hawk see the world so differently. He is an idealist; you are a realist."

"Does that mean—do you think we won't ever be able to be happy together?"

"Not at all! My dear Laurent and I were vastly different in our outlook on life. He only saw the world as it was, while I saw it as it could be. We balanced each other, learned and grew from each other. That is what you and Hawk can do … if you can overcome your natural diffidence enough to speak plainly to him."

"You mean …"

Grandmère nodded wisely. "You must tell him when he's rushing things, or pushing you into a position for which you aren't ready. If you don't want to assume marriage yet, then you must tell him so. You are far too apt to let others impose upon you, Meggie. You must learn to stand up for yourself, or you will never develop into a full person."

Meggie recognized good advice when she heard it, although the thought of confronting Hawk about his assumptions make her stomach churn. It was _so_ much easier to simply make other people happy.

"I'll try," she said finally.

"That is the very best any of us can do," Grandmère said approvingly. "Now, on to happier matters. Do you think it ridiculous of a woman my age to wear crimson to a dinner party?"

"Of course not!" Meggie asserted at once. "Grandmother Blythe started wearing pink after her hair turned white, and even though some people think she's too old for it, she looks simply sweet."

"Well, I personally can't abide pink, but I love red and always have. I have a dark crimson frock from France I've been saving for a special event, and I want to wear it tonight, as long as you don't think I'll embarrass Tricia and my son."

"I don't think they'll ever be embarrassed by you," Meggie said loyally.

"After all," Grandmère mused, "I am a former actress. People expect me to do shocking things. Dear Felicity was always convinced I was going to behave utterly inappropriately after I started my stage training! I was always dreadfully tempted to do something wicked just to shock her, but in the end, I never could. Propriety was too deeply ingrained in me, I suppose. What are you going to wear, dear?"

"Mrs. Giraud helped me pick out a new frock yesterday," Meggie said uncomfortably. The dress was far more expensive than anything she would ever have bought for herself—it probably cost more than the rest of her wardrobe entire—but Mrs. Giraud had insisted on paying for it "as a gift." Meggie still wished she'd been able to get something simpler and less expensive, but, like Grandmère, she didn't want to embarrass the family by her dress, so she acquiesced.

"It's a cream silk with lots of lace and frills," she tried to describe it. "It has dozens of buttons up the back, and it reaches nearly to the floor, and …"

"And you loathe it," Grandmère finished shrewdly.

Meggie bit her lip. "It's just a bit _fussier_ than what I usually wear. Mrs. Giraud assured me it is the height of fashion, though."

"Who cares about that if wearing it makes you miserable?" Grandmère rang a tiny bell on the table next to her chair. "Remember what I just told you about asserting yourself? I'm going to help you do just that." When a pert maid opened the door in response to the bell, Grandmère said, "Please ask Mrs. Giraud if she can spare a moment to see me."

"I don't want to cause a fuss," Meggie said in distress. "The dress is already here, and the dinner is in only a few hours. I can wear it one night."

"Nonsense."

Meggie was spared any more pleading by Mrs. Giraud herself entering the room. "What can I do for you, Mother? Ah Meggie, I thought you were in the music room with Hawk!"

"Tricia," Grandmère said without preamble. "Meggie here was just telling me about the dress you picked out for her. Why on earth didn't you consult her taste before choosing it? The poor girl is trying desperately to be polite, but she is perfectly miserable at the thought of wearing that."

"Oh dear." Mrs. Giraud looked at Meggie in concern. "Is that true, Meggie?"

Meggie tried to think of a way she could be both polite and honest. Finally, she gave up and decided to be as blunt as Grandmère herself. "It's not really my style," she admitted. "And I'm not comfortable with spending that much money on one piece of clothing, especially not with a war going on."

Mrs. Giraud shook her head. "I am so very sorry. I've become so accustomed to shopping for Sally that it didn't even occur to me that young women have their own ideas about fashion!" She looked at her wristwatch. "We have just enough time, if we hurry, to return that dress and pick out something you like."

"Actually," Meggie said, gathering her courage in both hands, "I have a gold-colored frock that my Auntie Nan gave me for my birthday this spring. It's not as fancy as the dresses you were looking at, but I do love it. Would you mind telling me if you think it would be acceptable?"

To her surprise, Mrs. Giraud pulled her to her feet in an enormous hug. "Of course, dear. Mother, would you excuse us?"

Grandmère winked at Meggie. "Certainly, Tricia."

* * *

Dressed in her gold gown, feeling like herself instead of a toy doll, Meggie entered the dining room on Hawk's arm that evening at least mostly at ease. Mrs. Giraud had apologized profusely for jumping to conclusions regarding her dress, and Meggie had apologized for not speaking up earlier. The cream silk had been returned to the store, and by the time Hawk emerged from the music room, all was amicable.

Most of the other young ladies present at the dinner party were dressed, as Matty would have inelegantly put it, to the teeth. Still, Meggie felt comfortable as she was. She was only a simple farm girl, after all, so it would be silly to dress as though she was anything else.

Grandmère looked perfectly elegant in her crimson gown, her wheeled chair in the place of honor at the foot of the table. Meggie was seated next to Mr. Giraud, who was naturally at the head. Hawk was across from her, and a very elegant young man was on her other side.

"Is this your first visit to Montreal?" the elegant youth drawled once they were all seated.

"Yes," Meggie answered simply.

"It's simply the finest city in Canada," he asserted. "Ask anyone. Go where you like, you'll never find a better city."

"What about Ottawa?" Meggie ventured, thinking of their nation's capitol.

"Ottawa!" the youth wrinkled his nose in scorn. "Ottawa is positively _provincial_."

The superiority of Montreal to every other city in Canada—and indeed, the world—kept Meggie's dinner partner well occupied through the first several courses. Then he became absorbed in the food and ignored her for the rest of the meal, much to her relief.

"Well, and I hope we aren't overwhelming you too dreadfully," Mr. Giraud said to her.

Meggie smiled at him. She had taken to Hawk's father at once; he was far less intimidating than she had imagined. Indeed, she thought his eyes were some of the kindest she'd ever seen on a man (other than Papa, of course). "I think I'll survive," she told him cheerfully.

He laughed. "To be perfectly honest, I don't care much about this sort of thing myself, but it's necessary. Nobody would do business with me if I secluded myself away like a hermit. I am considering visiting PEI next summer, though. Hawk and the others have never been there, and I'd love them to see it."

"How lovely!" Meggie cried. "Would you come to Avonlea?"

He shook his head. "We'd most likely stay in Carlisle, with Mother's family. It would do my spoiled youngsters good to live in an old farmhouse for a few months."

"Oh Father, we're not really spoiled," Hawk protested. "You make us sound like china dolls."

"Your idea of 'roughing it,' my boy, is having to share a room with your brothers when we have an overflow of overnight guests. Would you believe, Meggie, that my boys have never spent the night outdoors?"

Meggie could and did believe it.

"If we go to Carlisle next summer, I'll tell Steve to put up some tents and toss all you youngsters outside to sleep."

Hawk shook his head fastidiously. "What about bugs?"

"Citronella," Meggie offered at once. "No bug can stand the smell of it." She grinned companionably at Hawk's father. "My cousins and I have slept outdoors quite a bit. My brother Matty—Matt, I mean—makes the best coffee over a campfire you've ever tasted."

"We'll have to rely on you for expertise, then."

Hawk still didn't look convinced. "It sounds terribly uncomfortable. Why camp when you can stay in a hotel? Meggie, didn't you tell me there was a resort place near Avonlea? White Sands, didn't you say?"

Mr. Giraud sighed in mock despair. "I've pampered you lads far too long."

After the meal concluded, the men retired to Mr. Giraud's study, presumably to talk business, while the women and young people gathered in the parlor. There Meggie faced her first real test: the other girls.

"You're from Prince Edward Island, did you say?" asked one haughty damsel clad in a gown so expensive it made Meggie's rejected cream silk look positively cheap.

"Yes," Meggie answered proudly, her chin tilting up just slightly. She didn't care what they thought, she loved her home!

"This must be quite a change for you," sneered a black-eyed puss with a sour mouth.

"Practically like visiting another country," giggled another.

"It is different, yes," Meggie admitted. She caught sight of Grandmère's crimson across the room and excused herself.

"Are all the girls in Montreal cats?" she asked in a whisper.

Grandmère smiled cynically. "Only the rich ones." She patted Meggie's hand encouragingly. "Don't mind a thing they say—they're simply jealous of you because you are pretty and healthy and above all their little pettiness. And, of course, because you have captured my grandson's heart and they all wanted to win him for themselves."

"Maybe they should try being nicer," Meggie suggested.

"I doubt that has ever occurred to them."

As the evening wore on, Meggie began to wonder if she could slip away to her room. She was tired of being polite and never hearing a bit of real conversation. She decided, however, that as the guest of honor it would be rude to just leave, so instead she found a quiet corner and sat down on a stuffed bench, enjoying the break from civil inanities.

"Did you see her dress?" she suddenly heard behind the potted plants that concealed the speaker from view. She sighed. Even here she couldn't escape from society gossip!

"It's positively dowdy. Where do you suppose she got it, the local dressmaker?" Several girls tittered, and Meggie had a horrible sinking feeling they were discussing her.

"I can't understand what Hawk sees in her," said the first girl, confirming Meggie's suspicion. "She's just a little provincial _child_. Why, she's not even wearing any makeup tonight! She'd be better off playing dolls with Sally than mixing with company."

Meggie reflected that playing dolls with Sally might very well be preferable to mixing with _these_ girls. She wondered if she could possibly move away without them seeing her, but regretfully decided that she would be visible as soon as she stood up. She was trapped as a reluctant eavesdropper.

"I wonder how long it will take Hawk to get tired of her," snipped another. "She's certainly not glamorous enough to hold his attention for long."

"No," agreed yet another voice. "After all, you can't imagine her living among the rich and famous, as Hawk insists he will! Can you see him, a fabulously wealthy and well-known composer, introducing people to his little country mouse of a wife?"

The girls burst into giggles and moved off, leaving Meggie with mixed feelings. She wasn't particularly hurt by what they had said—after all, she _was_ provincial, and she couldn't imagine herself living in their world any more than they could. It was what they said about Hawk that troubled her. Did he really think they were compatible enough to get married? She couldn't live in a big city, doing what Mrs. Giraud did all day long. She couldn't host large parties and mingle effortlessly with all sorts of people, most of whom she didn't like. Something vital in her would wither up and die away from the country. Even after one semester at the Conservatory she always felt stifled and desperate to return home, where she could breathe. This world—this world that Hawk seemed to enjoy so much—was not hers.

Grandmère was right. She needed to have a long, serious talk with Hawk about their future—about whether or not they had a future, or ought to part ways now. Meggie shivered. She hated the thought of confrontation, hated even worse the very real possibility that she would hurt Hawk … but things could not continue like this, with Hawk in happy oblivion and her in nervous misery.

One way or another, something had to change.


	25. Back to Green Gables

"Hawk," Meggie said nervously, twisting her hands together.

Hawk swiveled around on the piano stool. His artistic eye noted with appreciation the picture Meggie made as she stood in the music room doorway with the afternoon sun slanting across her figure, catching her chestnut curls with glints of gold and lighting her cream dress.

"Yes?" he said finally, tearing his eyes away from her overall image to note the distressed look on her face. "Is something wrong?"

"I was hoping … if you're not too busy with your music, I was wondering if we could go for a walk," Meggie said.

"Of course!" Hawk sprang to his feet with alacrity. "This is the last day of your visit, after all. We can do whatever you'd like."

Meggie smiled. "Thank you."

Ever the gentleman, Hawk offered her his arm as they left the mansion to stroll to the nearby public gardens. "I wish you would change your mind and stay longer—even until the end of the summer," he said, trying once again to persuade her. "We could go back to school together that way, and we wouldn't have to be parted."

Meggie shook her head. Hawk (and the rest of his family) had been trying to convince her to stay longer for the past week. Even though she kept telling them that she needed to go home and see her family, they kept trying to change her mind. All, that is, except Grandmère, who only smiled knowingly and winked.

Hawk couldn't understand it at all. He knew Meggie was very attached to her family, but it was incomprehensible to him that anyone would prefer to spend their last few weeks of summer in an old farmhouse tucked away in a hamlet in the middle of nowhere. Surely Meggie would rather stay with him, in Montreal, where life was elegant and pleasant and sophisticated. He glanced at her sideways as they walked. She was so graceful, her slim body moving in time to an unheard tune, her cheeks faintly flushed from the warmth, her brown head held high with natural dignity. She was like a precious jewel, and she belonged in a proper setting, not some dingy old island where no one could appreciate her.

"Hawk, I need to talk to you," Meggie suddenly blurted.

"Yes?"

"It's about … us, you and me, and where we're going."

"The gardens?" Hawk asked, puzzled.

Meggie laughed a little, and the flush receded somewhat from her face. "No, not where we're going literally. I mean where we're going as a couple, what our future is."

Hawk released her arm to take her hand in his. "Our future is together, Meggie. Isn't it obvious? We were meant for each other."

"I don't want to offend you, Hawk … but I don't think everything is that simple." Meggie bit her lip, looking dreadfully in earnest. "You—you seem to think that we're going to be together forever, that we'll get married and live in your world, and that everything will just be perfect."

Hawk let go of her hand, stopping to face her. "What do you mean? Meggie, don't tell me you've just been toying with me. I won't believe it of you!"

"Of course not, but Hawk, I'm only sixteen. I'm not ready to have my whole life planned out, as you seem to be. Besides, I don't know if I could ever be happy in this world of riches and society. I'm just a simple farmer's daughter. I'm happiest in the woods, or the fields, away from people. I could never be like your mother, playing hostess to all the world."

"Meggie, you're too hard on yourself. You _do_ belong in this world, far more than you do in simple Avonlea. You only think you don't because you've never experienced what life can be like. You will be a great singer someday, I know it, and I will write the operas that make you famous."

Now Meggie was starting to look frustrated. "Hawk, you're not listening!" she cried. People around them looked at the young couple curiously. Meggie blushed and started to walk again. After a few paces, Hawk caught up with her.

"I'm sorry," he said with unwonted humility. "I'm trying to understand, but what you're saying doesn't make sense. Please, try to explain it to me again. I'll do my best to really listen this time."

Meggie was silent for a few more steps. Then she said, "Before Grandmamma made Matty and me come to school, I never wanted anything more than to stay at Green Gables all my life, taking care of Papa and my brother. I never wanted to get married, I didn't care about seeing the world, I didn't even want an education. Now, after two years at the Conservatory, I can see that there is more out there, and I'm interested in it. But my heart … the core of who I am is still at Green Gables. I love a simple life, I love the slower pace … I love Avonlea.

"Maybe someday my opinion will change. It has already changed considerably in the last two years. But when I hear you assume that I will naturally come into _your_ world, fit into your life and your plans, I get panicky. I'm not ready for that yet. Right now I just want to enjoy where I am, not where I might—or might not—be several years down the road."

Hawk took her hand again. "I'm sorry," he said, genuinely meaning it. "I never realized that you might be feeling pressured. I promise, I'll stop talking about our future. For right now, we can just be, as you said, where we are now."

"Thank you," Meggie said, relief showing on her sweet features.

Though Hawk didn't say it, nothing inside had changed. He was still certain, deep down, that Meggie would change her mind about her future. The more time they spent together, the more she would come to see that her future lay far beyond the farmyard.

He could be patient. He could wait. Everything would work itself out in time.

* * *

Meggie didn't even feel her feet touch the ground when she stepped off the train and ran to Papa's welcoming arms in Bright River. Despite having settled matters with Hawk, and despite how kind the Giraud family had been, there was no joy like that of coming home.

"Well, and so my world traveler is home," Shirley said once they were in the truck. He looked at his daughter's happy face and smiled. "The city doesn't seem to have spoiled you."

"It was lovely for a visit," Meggie said. "But oh, there is nothing like being back home again. How is everyone? Did I miss anything important?"

Shirley's face grew grave. He had hoped to wait a bit to tell her, but her forthright question left him no choice.

His sudden silence drew Meggie's attention away from the window, where she was nodding at the friendly trees. "Papa? What is it?" Fear suddenly clutched her throat. "It's not—Peter?"

"No!" Shirley answered firmly. "No, we still have heard nothing definite about Peter."

Meggie slumped back in her seat. "Then what is it?"

"Lily and Polly have joined up as VADs," Shirley said bluntly.

"Oh," Meggie said in a small voice. She knew that Blythe was going to be joining the army before the end of the summer. She had resigned herself to saying goodbye to him and Gil. But Lily—_and_ Polly? She and Lily had never been particularly close; no more than the rest of the cousins. In fact, Meggie was closer to Walt than she was his older sister. Still, thinking of the golden child of the clan, working overseas with blood and filth and tears, maybe even putting herself in danger … it was nearly inconceivable.

Far worse, though, was the thought of Polly doing the same. She had mentioned it, of course, in her letters, but never seriously. Polly was practically an older sister to Meggie; how would it be to say goodbye to her? And how would Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick manage without her?

"How are Auntie Di and Aunt Faith?"

"Faith is living up to her name," Shirley said. "She won't hold Lily back from doing what she sees as her duty, and she firmly believes that her daughter will return when this is all over. Di is having a harder time with it, but she won't stand in Polly's way. Patrick is furious, but Polly signed up without telling them of her intentions, and he can't do anything to stop her now."

"That doesn't sound like Polly."

"I think it was that wretched Melinda who put it in her mind," Shirley said angrily. "Polly would never do something this impulsive without some incitement."

"It's not completely impulsive," Meggie felt she had to say. "Well, not discussing it with Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick is, but she's been talking to me for a while about wanting to be a VAD. At first she didn't think she could, but once the children came, she thought Auntie Di could do without her."

Shirley looked at his daughter and laughed in surprise. "My Meggie, bearer of all secrets! First Johnny, now Polly. What other dark knowledge do you have locked away in your brain?"

Meggie thought of Polly's love for Pierre, known to only a limited few, and of Jocelyn being in love with Peter. "Nothing that will harm anyone," she said elusively.

Shirley shook his head. "It's a dangerous thing, being trustworthy. You have to carry many burdens on your shoulders. Perhaps I should have encouraged you to gossip more."

Meggie laughed at that, and the rest of the trip home passed pleasantly enough. Back at Green Gables, everyone was waiting: Matty, beaming all over in quiet delight at having his twin back; Polly, avoiding everyone's eyes and wearing a defiant expression; Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick, also avoiding people's eyes; Melinda, watching Matty with an expression of loathing; and the three children, filling the yard with laughter and noise.

"Welcome home," Auntie Di said, wrapping Meggie in a warm hug. "How was your trip? How is my dear Tricia?"

"She's well, she sends her best love," Meggie said. "Mr. Giraud also asked to be remembered to you."

"We've missed you here, Meggie," Uncle Patrick said tightly. He refused to glance at Polly. "Things haven't been particularly smooth with you gone."

Meggie could think of nothing to say to that, so she simply gave her uncle an extra large hug.

Polly was next, also refusing to look at her parents. "I suppose Uncle Shirley told you?"

"Yes," Meggie said.

"And do you disapprove, too?"

Meggie told her the simple truth. "It's not for me to approve or disapprove. You have to do what your own conscience tells you is right."

Polly's stiff demeanor melted at once. "Oh Meggie! It's been so hard, feeling like everyone blames me. I had to do it—for Pierre, don't you understand?"

The two girls had withdrawn a bit from everyone else. "But did you have to do it without telling anyone?" Meggie asked.

"It was Melinda made me think of it," Polly said, and Meggie hid her surprise at her father's accurate guess. "She kept talking about all the women serving in England, and how they let nothing stand in their way, and if only she hadn't been pregnant she would never have left, but stayed to do her part for king and country. It irritated me so much that I determined I would sign up, and let nothing stop me. I knew Mum and Dad would fuss—well, Dad more than Mum—so I decided to just _do_ it, without telling them. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, I guess."

"You will make up with them before you leave, won't you?" Meggie asked anxiously.

"If they let me."

"Remember—let nothing stand in your way," Meggie advised with a hint of mischief.

Polly looked surprised, and then laughed.

"Thank you," Matty whispered fervently to his sister as he drew her into the kitchen. "That's the first time Polly's laughed since she came home and announced that she was going to be a VAD. Things have been so bad around here that I was actually considering going back to Toronto with you!"

Meggie laughed and asked her brother the question that had been plaguing her since her arrival. "Why does Melinda keep glaring at you?"

Matty snickered. "She had her eye on Papa from the moment she got here, and now that I'm here she doesn't dare flirt with him as blatantly. It's hard to charm a man when his mostly-grown son is standing right there listening to you."

"Oh dear!" Meggie couldn't help but laugh, but she felt irritated as well. "What is wrong with Melinda, anyway? Why does she have to stir up so much trouble?"

Matty shrugged. "I think she's bored. Anyway, her baby will be born soon, and then she'll have something new to fuss over." He changed the subject. "So, I see no new ring on your finger. Hawk didn't propose?"

Meggie shook her head at him. "No, silly. In fact, he's agreed to stop trying to force our relationship so much, and just let it develop naturally."

"How'd you convince him to do that?"

"His grandmother told me I needed to be honest and open with him, so I was. At first he didn't listen at all, but by the end of our conversation I think he understood."

"Good for you," Matty said quietly.

After everyone left, Meggie went upstairs to her darling little garret room. She sat by the window and looked out into the branches of her beautiful cherry tree—she had called it _Sakura_ when she was a little girl, but she supposed the Japanese name would be considered unpatriotic now.

"I probably ought to call it _Cerisier_," she mused, recalling her French lessons.

So many memories, so many dreams, were bound up in this room. Meggie didn't know if she could ever bear to leave it permanently. Grandmother had, she knew, for Grandfather, and so had all the girls who had slept in it since. If she truly loved someone enough, she knew she would be willing to leave even Green Gables.

But could she ever love Hawk that much?

Meggie shivered and reminded herself that she didn't need to make that decision now. Thanks to Grandmère, the future was just that—future. For now, she could be sixteen and carefree. Or as carefree as anyone could be with a war going on.

As if in response to her thought, Meggie heard a sudden pounding on the kitchen door. She raced downstairs, joined on the way by father and brother. Shirley, with his long legs, reached the door a step ahead of the twins. He wrenched it open to reveal Polly, standing there with tears streaming down her face, her copper hair floating loosely around her head in direct contrast to her white face.

"What is the matter?" Shirley asked anxiously.

"T-t-telegram," Polly gasped.

"Bran," Matty muttered behind Meggie, and she felt a stab of worry pierce her heart.

But Polly shook her head. "No—not Bran. Peter!"


	26. Word From Peter

The telegram simply read:

"Escaped from Nazis am in England will write soon Peter Samuels."

However, to an anxious family, those ten words brought more joy than the lengthiest epistle ever written. Auntie Di broke down and sobbed—sobbed so long and so hard that Uncle Patrick started to get worried and made her drink a small glass of brandy.

"My boy," she kept saying, hiccupping slightly. "I knew he wasn't dead."

Polly and Uncle Patrick, their disagreement forgotten, hugged each other in glad silence. Shirley took it on himself to phone the rest of the family at once, and Matty tried to explain to the little ones what was happening.

Left to herself, Meggie wandered outside, down to Tanglewood's pond. She stared at the still waters, reflecting the stars and a sliver of the moon, and tried to sort out her feelings. On top of everything was thankfulness—under that was a deep joy, joy so deep it almost seemed a sadness. There was a sense of fear lifted—of wonder—and of awe. Finally, unable to hold it all in anymore, she fell to her knees in the manner of Christians of old, bowed her head down to the very grass, and thanked God over and over again.

"I must tell Jocelyn at once," she said to herself as she headed back to the house.

As it turned out, however, there was no need. Peter's letter arrived two days after the telegram, along with a letter for Meggie from Jocelyn Reed.

_Dear Meggie,_ Jocelyn wrote,

_You will have already heard that Peter is alive, but what you may not know is that he is here at Reed Hall. Did I ever complain about turning my ancestral hall into a home for convalescent soldiers? If so, you shall never hear me do so again, for that is how Peter is here, under my care. I know he is writing to the family with the details of his captivity and escape, so I won't say much, except he was badly wounded before capture, and of course received very little treatment at the hands of the Nazis. So when he escaped and made it back to England, he came here to recover. I shall never know if he requested to be sent here or if a kindly God simply arranged it, but I am so thankful. Here, I can keep my eye on him, put some meat back on his bones, and watch over his recovery like a hawk. Please assure Mrs. Samuels that Peter is receiving the best possible care—barring that of a mother's._

_Oh Meggie! God is so good!_

_Yours,_

_Jocelyn._

Peter's letter, in fact, did not give much more information than Jocelyn's. He did mention thathe was at Reed Hall, and that Jack and Lady Leah had already visited him. Of his capture and escape, however, he said very little.

_My plane was shot down,_ he said briefly, _and I was knocked unconscious. By the time I came to, the Nazis had me. For a long while I was too weak to try anything, but as soon as I was strong enough I planned my escape. I made a break for it with two other fellows. One didn't make it—I got separated from the other and don't know what happened to him. There were a few close shaves, but eventually I made it back to good old England._

_I love you, Mum. I could feel you praying for me—all of you—the whole time I was in captivity. Sometimes I think those prayers are the only thing that got me away in one piece. Tell Dad and Polly and Uncle Shirley, Matty, and Meggie that I love them too. And if someone ever hears from my harum-scarum bother, you might as well tell him that I love him, too._

_I'll likely be going back into action as soon as I'm well enough, but don't worry. With a family like mine behind me, I know I'll make it through the rest of this war in one piece._

"How like a man!" Polly said in her most irritating voice. "No details of how he was shot down, what it was like being a prisoner, where he was wounded, anything!"

"How like Peter," Meggie corrected softly, "To not want to trouble us with painful details."

Polly bit her lip. "You're right, of course. I just—I'm so proud of my heroic brother, and I want to boast of him to everyone, and how can I do that when he won't give us any information?"

Shirley overheard their conversation. "It might be too hard for him to look back on it himself," he offered. "He'd probably just as soon put it all behind him, try to forget it ever happened." Seeing their distressed faces, he added gently, "Peter's never been one to boast, anyhow. Just be thankful he's safe."

That, everyone agreed, they could do.

* * *

Meggie, after writing back to both Jocelyn and Peter, tried to think with whom else she should share the good news. Rose and the other girls would be thrilled, of course, but she'd be seeing them so soon that it hardly seemed worth writing. Auntie Di would have already written to Bran, and Bran would want to be the one to tell Jane … but she was so bursting with joy and relief she had to tell _somebody_!

Of course there was Hawk, but Meggie tried not to talk about war matters with him, knowing how sensitive he was toward the issue. He'd be happy for her that Peter was safe, but he would also be distressed over what he considered the futility of war, and prisoners, and Peter going back into combat. Meggie wanted someone to rejoice with her, not fill her soul with disquiet.

Finally, she pulled pen and paper toward her and started to write, an unconscious smile on her face.

_Dear Will,_

_I know you will be as happy as the rest of us at the wonderful, blessed news we received a couple of days ago. Peter is alive! He sent us a telegram from England—he was a prisoner, and escaped, and is recovering from his injuries at a convalescent home. It's an amazing coincidence, really (though I know you don't believe in coincidences, just in God's hand working in everything, and I do agree with you): he was sent to Reed Hall, the home of his friend Jocelyn Reed, where he worked while attending Cambridge, back before the war. He's always loved it there, and Jocelyn has already written to me promising to take good care of him. We would be so thankful, obviously, to have him safe anywhere, but knowing that he is someplace familiar, with a friend at hand, is an added blessing._

_Oh Will, God is so very good to us! When I think of the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of families whose sons won't return, when I think that there are far more prisoners who don't escape than who do, I can't help but wonder why we should be so singled out and blessed. Not that I'm questioning it, of course—I just feel so very humble._

_I'm sure Aunt Betsy will have written the good news to Uncle Bruce, so feel free to mention it to him the next time you meet. And you can tell him I pray for him daily—and for you, as well. I know you can't give me any details of when you might be leaving Africa, or what you're doing there (besides being eaten alive by bugs the size of your hand), but I hope you'll stay safe in all your endeavors._

_A part of me wants to assume, since Peter has miraculously returned, that none of the people I know and care about will be hurt by this war. That's foolishness, though, so do try to keep yourself out of trouble—if not for my sake, then for your uncle's sake. He worries about you even more than I do._

_Yours,_

_Meg.

* * *

_

Seated in a filthy tent "somewhere in Africa," a young man grinned delightedly though his mask of dirt, his teeth flashing white in a sunburned face, as he read Meg's letter.

"Good news, Ashton?" one of his comrades asked languidly.

"Some of the best," Will told him. "A friend thought dead has returned to the living."

"Here I thought it was just a letter from your girl," the young soldier jibed.

Will didn't say anything in response to that, just smiled and placed the letter with the others in his small cedar box. Meg Blythe certainly wasn't his girl … but maybe someday.

A man could hope.

Some days, all they had to go on was hope. Will would like to tell Meg, someday, how the thought of her pure smile and trusting eyes was the only thing that helped him through this hell of war. When he was fighting the enemy, trying to hold on to some shred of sanity amid the utter insanity all around him, he could sometimes see her face, telling him to hold on. Telling him that she believed in him.

It wasn't the sort of thing one could tell a girl who was just a friend, of course. But maybe, just maybe, someday she would get over that pup Graham Giraud, and Will would have a chance to tell her what was in his heart.

For now, he would cherish her friendship and her letters, and continue to hope.

* * *

In light of Peter's return, all differences between Polly and her parents smoothed out. She apologized for signing up without telling them, and they told her they were proud of her for following her conscience to leave the comfortable safety of Avonlea and serve. And though Polly never blamed Miranda for her rash decision, somehow Di and Patrick learned that she was the one who had prompted it. Meggie suspected her father of telling them, but he just winked at her when she asked.

August rolled in, and with it Blythe Meredith's eighteenth birthday. He had talked about joining up for so long that nobody was surprised when he proudly told his parents he was now a member of the Canadian Armed Forces. Auntie Nan shed a few tears, but for the most part the family was proud.

"Six," Meggie sighed.

"Six what?" Matty asked her. The twins were spending a rare afternoon doing nothing, lolling on their backs in the soft grass of late summer.

"Blythe makes the sixth from our family to go overseas: Peter; Bran; Gil; Lily and Polly; and now Blythe."

"Don't forget Will and Jane," Matty said. "They might not be blood relatives, but they're still family."

Meggie sighed again. "Then that makes eight. Oh dear!"

"And Uncle Bruce and Uncle Ken," Matty continued. "That's ten."

Meggie rolled up on one side to glare at her brother. "You're not helping."

Matty shrugged. "Why get so worked up over numbers? You'd be upset if we even had one over there. One or ten, it won't make it any easier if someone gets ki"—

Meggie put a hand over her brother's mouth. "Don't say it. Don't even think it."

"You're thinking it," Matty pointed out with infuriating logic. "That's why you're upset."

Meggie flopped back down in despair. "I know. I keep being torn: one minute I think that Peter's return is like a sort of charm, it means nothing will happen to anyone. The next, I think that the price of his safety will be someone else's death."

"Neither of those positions is tenable," Matty said. "God doesn't work that way."

"I know that in my head, but it's not so easy to be sure in my heart."

Matty looked at his sister with compassion. "I think the real problem is you're dreading going back to school, and you're projecting that onto war matters."

"You're probably right," Meggie admitted. He usually was. "This summer has been such a whirlwind—traveling to the Glen, going to Montreal, hearing about Peter—I feel like I haven't had a chance to breathe, even, much less absorb enough home atmosphere to get me through until Christmas."

"Meggie," Matty's voice was suddenly very serious. "Why are you still with Hawk?"

"What do you mean?" Meggie asked in astonishment.

"He's making you miserable. You can't ever be yourself around him, he expects you to dote in him and his interests without showing the slightest concern about yours, you can't even tell him about your friendship with Will, who's practically another cousin, without him getting jealous, you can't talk to him about the war because he's a pacifist …" he had to stop for breath.

Meggie had never seen her stoic brother so passionate over anything. "Hawk and I had some problems in our relationship, but we worked them out. I told you about that, in Montreal."

"Then why aren't you more excited about seeing him in a couple of weeks?" Matty demanded bluntly. "You're looking more forward to seeing Rose and Connie—and even Samantha!—than you are to seeing Hawk."

Meggie realized it was true. When she thought about going to school, she thought of the challenges of taking new classes, the joy in reuniting with her roommates, her pleasure in seeing favorite professors. Hawk … Hawk was a shadowy figure, to be kept in the background of her mind as long as possible.

"Oh dear," she said, sitting up unhappily. "Now I'm all confused again. Everything seemed so clear when I came back from Montreal … maybe I'm just remembering the way it used to be, not the way it will be now that we've talked. I need to give Hawk a chance."

Matty sat up as well and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. "You do that, but don't force yourself to stay with him if he makes you miserable. You like to make other people happy all the time, but you won't be doing yourself or Hawk any favors by staying in a relationship that's a lie."

Meggie rested her head against Matty. "What am I going to do without you in Toronto?" she asked softly.

Matty grinned. "Write me lots of letters, I guess."

Meggie laughed. "Every day. Just make sure you write back."

"I will. We're twins, Meg. Even miles can't really separate us."


	27. Meggie to Meg

"Oh dear," Rose sighed, her face as glum as a piquant, charming, wild-rose face can ever look. "I've been looking forward all summer to coming back and being with you girls again."

"Thank you," Connie said gravely, only her twinkling eyes showing her amusement. "We are flattered by the joy in your tone."

Rose flung a pillow at her. "It isn't you, you goose! It's just that I had imagined a joyful, exciting reunion, and here we are, still stuck in the war, with everyone going about rationing and worrying, and nothing is as exciting as I'd hoped."

"The problem is," Connie told her, "You get spoiled whenever you go home, because the States aren't it in yet. You get to forget the war for three months, so it's a shock to your system to return to it. We, on the other hand, are inundated with it constantly, so it doesn't seem strange to us."

Rose wrinkled her nose. "Don't you ever just want to break free from it all and have _fun_?" she cried.

"Not really," Meggie told her honestly. "When I think about what our soldiers are enduring overseas, I'm just thankful to be able to pursue my studies quietly and peacefully."

Rose groaned and rolled back on her bed. "Oh _dear_! I don't think I'll make a good patriot when we do enter the war. When everyone else is thinking about how proud they are of our troops, I'll be wondering how long it will be until I can have a new silk dress."

"What do you mean, 'when?'" Samantha asked. "I have my doubts whether the States will ever join the cause."

"Oh, they'll join all right," Rose said dismally. "The fever for war has been building for months. Some boys have even talked about coming over here to sign up, just to get in the action. The president's doing his best to keep us neutral, but even he knows it can't last."

"Well, if they're going to join I wish they would just join!" Connie said severely. "We could use the help. I don't like the news from the Soviet Union, and I don't like the rumors of what the Nazis are doing to Jews."

All the girls fell silent, thinking of the atrocities which were rumored to be happening overseas.

"At least our classes are interesting this year," Meggie said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"Yours may be," Rose said, refusing to climb out of her gloomy pit. "Mine are just as boring as they were last year. I don't think I'm really cut out to be a student. If only I were two years older, then Geoffy and I could get married and I could really start to enjoy myself!"

Samantha giggled. "Rose, you'd make a dreadful housewife. You can't cook, you hate cleaning, you're terribly disorganized …"

Rose smiled triumphantly. "Ah, but I know how to smile at my husband when he comes home from work and make him feel his day got a bit brighter. Children adore me, so I'll be a good mother, and just think of the fun the servants will have at my expense whenever I attempt to accomplish something useful around the house!"

"Servants?" Meggie asked. "Are you planning to be rich, then?"

"At least a cook and a girl to clean," Rose said with assurance. "Geoffy has promised me that, and it's for his sake as much as my own, because as Sammy pointed out, I would poison him within a week if I tried preparing meals, and the house would be so filthy he wouldn't dare sit down."

Samantha looked at Meggie with evaluating eyes. "I suppose you'll have plenty of servants when you and Hawk get married."

Meggie flushed. "Who says we're getting married?" she asked, trying to imitate Rose's light manner.

"Everyone," Connie answered bluntly. "You've been a couple for almost two years now, and anyone with eyes can see that Hawk is madly in love with you."

"And you must be in love with him, too, darling," Samantha said. "Who wouldn't be? He's every girl's dream, a perfect Prince Charming."

"I'm too young to think about marriage," Meggie said with dignity. "Hawk and I have agreed to keep things simple for now, and we'll discuss … other matters … when the time comes."

"You may have agreed, but that doesn't change the facts," Connie said cryptically.

"Well," Rose said, tossing off her gloom finally, "I absolutely refuse to let any of you get married before I do. Geoff and I have been engaged since the _cradle_, practically, and it would be too unfair if any of you got ahead of us. Besides, I need you all to be my bridesmaids!"

"Don't you have friends back home to act as bridesmaids?"

"Of course! We're going to have an enormous wedding party. Geoff's sister Katy is going to be my maid-of-honor, and he has at least half a dozen other sisters and cousins. Add you girls and Merrill—I'm planning on having a dozen bridesmaids."

"Oh Rose!" Meggie giggled.

"Why not," demanded Rose, undaunted. "Why shouldn't I make my wedding the most elaborate day of my life? After all, I've been planning it since I was three and I told Geoff that I would marry him as long as he let me have my own way all our lives."

"Did he agree?" Samantha asked cynically.

"Of course," Rose answered. She smiled sweetly. "He knows I will get my own way whether he lets me or not."

* * *

_Sept. 21, 1941_

_Dear Peter,_

_I can't get over how good—good—good! it is to be able to write to you again. Those long months when you were missing just seem like a horrible nightmare now. I'm sure they are still vivid to you, though! I don't mean to dismiss all you went through; it's just the joy at having you back safely overshadows even the deepest horror we felt at the time._

_I must confess to being a little envious of Jocelyn, that she gets to see you every day and help you get better. I wish I could be there as well! It has been too long since we've communicated any way but by letter. But there—I was just rejoicing that I _can_ write to you; I won't spoil it now by complaining that I can't see you._

_Polly mentioned in her last letter that she got a break from training and was able to visit you. She said you looked good, if a little thin and drawn, and that you gave her quite the brotherly scolding for becoming a VAD. Don't be too cross with her, Peter. I can't give away all her reasons, but this isn't a silly, romantic schoolgirl fancy. She really and truly does need to feel that she is contributing something useful—that she is helping the soldiers and the war effort._

_Sometimes I feel guilty that I am so content to stay at home and go to school! I feel like I ought to have more of a desire to help, but I haven't even joined the local Red Cross. My studies take up so much time that I really don't have anything extra to give. Besides, I'm afraid it would hurt Hawk to have me get too involved in something he finds so repugnant._

_I'm still torn about Hawk. Matty thinks I ought to end our relationship, but I don't want to hurt him. I really do care for him, even though I know my feelings aren't as deep as his. I keep hoping, if we stay together long enough, that my feelings will grow to match his. I need to give us a chance. On the other hand, I get so angry when the girls assume we're going to get married, or when he talks about our future (which he still does occasionally, despite my having asked him not to)! Is it wrong of me to stay in a relationship where I don't want to think about tomorrow? Am I being selfish, and leading Hawk on to believe something false?_

_These are the times I wish my mother was still alive._

_I should apologize for burdening you with my silly schoolgirl affairs, but I know you like to hear all the everyday details of our lives._

_Give my best to Jocelyn—I'm afraid I haven't the time to be as diligent in writing to her as I would like._

_Always yours,_

_Meggie._

_P.S.—Which do you like better for me, Meg or Meggie? Will calls me Meg, and I rather like it, but I'm afraid the family would drop dead in horror if I ever called myself something other than Meggie. Just ask Matty: he's been trying all summer to go by Matt, and even I can't remember to call him that!_

Meggie smiled as she penned those last words. Meggie and Matty they were, and likely would be to the end of time, except to Uncle Bruce and Aunt Betsy, who called them Joanna and Joshua, and to those few people outside the family who used the shorter versions of their names.

She did like the sound of "Meg"—it sounded oddly grown-up, more the person she was striving to become than the person she was. "Meggie Blythe" was still a child, with a child's way of thinking and acting. "Meg" was a young woman who looked more outside herself to see how she could best serve others.

"Girls," she announced, making up her mind. Her roommates looked up from their homework (or, in Rose's case, her dime novel). "I've made a decision."

"What about?" Connie asked.

"I want you to call me Meg from now on, not Meggie."

"Excellent choice!" Samantha drawled. "Meggie is _such_ a childish name."

It wasn't often Meggie—or Meg—found herself in agreement with Samantha, but in this case she was.

How did that old verse go? "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."

It was time to put away childish things. She was sixteen and a half—Grandmother Blythe was teaching school by then and helping Marilla run the farm! Matty—_Matt_—was home, operating as Shirley's right-hand man. Only she, Meggie, was trying to cling to her childish ways as long as possible.

Perhaps the new name would help her see her way clear through the tangled mess she'd made of her relationship with Hawk; it might also help define her priorities. She didn't want to float through life, just doing whatever was easier or people expected of her. She needed to take a stand, decide for herself what was important, and not worry so much about pleasing others.

"Meg," she said, rolling the name around her tongue again. "Meg Blythe, girl-becoming-woman."


	28. December 7, 1941

The winter air was cold and sharp, but Meg didn't even notice as she carried her precious bounty of letters to the park. Back at the Conservatory, the girls were talking over last night's Christmas party, and she wouldn't have been able to read a single word in peace. She could have gone to the library, she supposed, but something in her rejoiced to be outdoors and free.

She had five beautiful letters that had come in the mail yesterday, and been forced to hold over until after the party—one each from Matt, Polly, Peter, Jocelyn, and Will. That latter correspondent might have had something to do with her decision to avoid the library: if Hawk found her reading a letter from Will, he would have been terribly jealous, and they might have quarreled.

Meg repressed a sigh. Despite her determination to act more mature, she was still mired in a slough of indecision regarding Hawk. She had hinted—gently—a month or so ago that perhaps she wasn't being quite fair in asking him to keep their relationship casual, when he obviously wanted more, but he grew so distressed at the thought of ending things that she didn't have the heart to pursue it. He kept assuring her that he didn't mind waiting for her to feel for him as he did for her—but Meg was starting to think more and more that that was not going to happen.

Convincing Hawk of that, however, was another matter.

Dropping onto a deserted park bench, Meg dismissed Hawk from her mind to savor her mail. She started with Matt's letter, a short screed telling about how they were all keeping over the winter. Miranda's baby, a scrawny two-month-old with lungs of iron, screamed so loudly at night that Matt and Shirley had taken Roger and Daniel in to Green Gables so they could get some sleep. They'd offered to find room for Avery and Sel, too, but those two youngsters refused to leave Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick.

_It may be uncharitable,_ Matt wrote bluntly, _but I wish Miranda would go back to England. She just brings everyone down all the time, and her baby is a nightmare._

Meg smiled. Trust Matt to ignore common convention and not insist on calling a baby "sweet" just because it was a baby!

They were all looking forward to having her home for Christmas, he added at the end, and he especially wished she didn't have to go back.

_It's swell having Roger and Dan around—like two younger brothers—but they're no substitute for you. A hundred times a day I find myself wanting to tell you something, but by the time I sit down to write it's gone. Pop is proud of you for sticking with your education, but I wish you'd just chuck it and come home. Suppose that's selfish, but there you have it._

Meg smiled wistfully. It would be easier to go home, certainly … but she had made a commitment to school, and she was not going to go back on it now.

Finishing Matt's letter, she turned to Polly's. Her training was complete and she would be going out into the field soon. Most VADs, she wrote, worked in convalescent homes or on hospital ships, but she had requested to go to a field hospital, where she would work as a ward maid.

_Cleaning bedpans and sweeping up after "real" nurses isn't very glamorous, but I'm not here for glamour; I'm here to give my best. Besides, every desperately wounded soldier I can help, even if it's just by keeping his room clean, will make me feel a little closer to Pierre. He and I still write almost every day, and he hasn't said that he loves me, but it breathes in every line of his letters. I haven't told him I love him, either, but I keep telling myself I must. If he—if anything happens to him, I want him to know how I feel._

Lily, she went on to say, was assigned to Jocelyn's rest home at Reed Hall. Polly suspected Jocelyn of pulling strings, and she could have stayed there too, if she wanted, but she chose not to.

Meg set Polly's letter on top of Matt's and opened Peter's.

_Christmas is coming, fawn. I know it's only the beginning of December, but Jocelyn and I are already planning how we can help make this a happy Christmas for all the poor chaps here. I know I won't be here much longer—I think I could leave now, but Jocelyn insists I'm not fully healed yet. I don't like to argue with her—she always wins!—and I'm ashamed to say that I'm enjoying my break from combat enough to seize any excuse to prolong it._

_One bit of good news—Freddie has managed to get a bit of leave just in time for Christmas, and he'll be coming home to spend it with Leah, Jack, and Godwin. Of course we'll see him here, even if he and Jocelyn are no longer engaged. I can't understand why she ended things with him—she won't tell me, and even less can I understand why I'm so happy about it. I must be a truly wretched fellow if I can be so secretly happy at my best chum's heartbreak. Though to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure if Freddie really is heartbroken over Jocelyn's change of mind. He never spoke of her as though he loved her—but then, I don't see how he could _not_ love her, either._

_Lily started working here this week, and she's a spot of joy to everyone here. Even the nurses like her, and they never like the volunteers! Lily is so sweet, though, and so uniformly good-natured, that everyone likes her. It's hard to describe her without making her sound sickly, isn't it? And yet she's not—she's just Lily. Do you remember, when we were kids, how we all used to say that Lily was destined for greatness, that she would never spend her entire life in a tiny Canadian village? Seeing her here now, I'm reminded of that, and convinced anew. Our Lily has something special awaiting her._

_Bran wrote to me last week. He's still leading a charmed life, the rascal. Nothing seems to ever touch him! He told me not to worry about getting back into combat shape—he was doing enough work for the both of us._

_It's almost enough to make me rush right back to my squadron and demand a plane again!_

Meg chuckled, and Peter's letter joined the "read" pile. Jocelyn's was much the same as his, telling about how much she enjoyed having Lily, and all the work she was going to making Peter rest enough to fully recover. She, of course, made no mention of Freddie, and Meg wondered how long it would be before she and Peter finally admitted they cared for each other. Not until Peter had seen Freddie for himself and knew that Freddie was not, in fact, breaking his heart over Jocelyn, she suspected. Peter was too much a gentleman to step into his friend's shoes.

Just as Meg set Jocelyn's letter aside and started to open Will's, she heard an uncertain voice.

"Meggie?"

She looked up. Standing before her was a young soldier in uniform. She blinked. She knew this man—knew his grey eyes and square jaw, knew that slightly belligerent stance …

"Johnny?"

It looked like her cousin, but what was he doing here in Toronto … and in an army uniform?

He grinned at her, and Meg saw that it was, indeed, Johnny. "Here I thought I'd have to sneak into your fancy music school to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Meg was still stunned. "Johnny, what—how—I don't understand."

He sat down next to her. "I joined up," he said simply.

"But you're not even seventeen," she said helplessly.

He shrugged. "I'm close enough. I turn seventeen next month, and that's only a year away from eighteen. Besides, I've been living on my own for over three years. I just told them I was eighteen, and they didn't ask too many questions."

He certainly looked eighteen, but Meg still couldn't quite believe it. "But—your family, Johnny, what about Auntie Nan? She was prepared to see Blythe off this summer; she won't have dreamed that you will have joined, too."

"Mother won't care so much about me," Johnny said roughly. "After all, I haven't seen or talked to her since I left home. You don't even have to tell her, if you don't want. I just wanted you to know—wanted someone to know, in case I didn't make it. I didn't join up under my real name, see? I didn't want too many questions asked. I told them my name was John West—a play on Grandmother Meredith's maiden name, as well as a nod to where I've lived in recent years. So if I don't survive, there'll be no one to know I even joined up, except you."

"Oh, Johnny," Meg said, tears filling her eyes. "_Why_?"

"Because it's my duty," he said, fumbling for a handkerchief to give her. "Because I can't sit around kicking my heels when there's a job to be done. Because I've always been a fighter, and this is the best fight I'll ever see."

Meg dabbed at her eyes. "Won't you at least call Auntie Nan and tell her yourself? I'll have to tell her, Johnny, you know I will, and she'd much rather hear it from you."

For a moment, he looked tempted, but then the shutters closed down over his face again and he shook his head. "Nope. I made my break from the family long ago. I don't owe them anything, and they don't owe me anything."

"Will you write to me, at least?" Meg said, accepting his words sadly. The hurt in Johnny's soul went far deeper than anyone had ever realized. "Just a line once in a while, so I know you're all right?"

Johnny nodded. "Sure." He leaned over and gave her a hug. "I'll miss you, Meggie. I've always wished you were my sister, and Matty my brother. Tell him goodbye for me, will you?"

Meg nodded, a chill striking her heart. Johnny, only a few months older than she and Matt—even though he lied about his age to get in, it brought home the very real possibility that Matt would be leaving soon enough, too.

"I love you, Johnny," she said, hugging him back. "I'll pray every day that God brings you home safely." She tried to hand him back the handkerchief, but he laughed, the hard lines in his face softening to the point where she could almost see the younger Johnny, helping Matt build a model airplane in Green Gables' kitchen.

"Keep it," he said. "I won't have much use for a hanky where I'm going. It'll be a reminder to you to keep up those prayers for me—I'll need them." He stood up. "I've got to go, Meggie. We're leaving for training camp tonight—I don't know when we'll be heading overseas, but I'll let you know."

"Be safe," was all Meg could say, still stunned by this unexpected turn of events.

Johnny made as if to walk away, hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her in another bear hug.

"Love you, Meggie," he muttered in her ear, then released her and walked away quickly, never once looking back. Meg watched him go through a veil of tears.

When he finally vanished into the dusk, she wiped her eyes and looked down at Will's letter. Somehow, she just didn't have the heart to read it now.

"Meggie, _who_ was that?"

Meg groaned internally. She automatically slipped Will's letter into her handbag, pasting a small smile on her face as she turned to greet Hawk.

"That," she said with a slight wobble in her voice, "was my cousin."

Hawk's face was set in a ferocious scowl. "I thought all your military cousins were overseas."

Meg was still emotional from Johnny's appearance and departure, and she answered more sharply than usual. "Do you think I'm lying to you?"

Hawk folded his arms across his chest. "All I can say is what I saw—you embracing a soldier in the middle of a public square."

His tone implied she had done something dreadfully wrong, and Meg's seldom-seen temper flared to life. She gathered her belongings, tucked Johnny's handkerchief into her skirt pocket, and glared at Hawk. "If you will excuse me, _Graham_," she said icily. "I'd like to be alone right now."

"Why?" Hawk said, his voice shaking. "Do you have another appointment with a soldier?"

"I don't believe that is any of your business," Meg said. She brushed past him, but he grabbed her arm.

"Meggie, wait." He alone of all her friends at school had refused to start calling her Meg. She _was_ Meggie, he insisted, and that could never change.

"Why?" she said, wrenching her arm free. "So you can insult me some more? I don't think so, thank you very much!"

His face was crimson with emotion. "I just want an explanation, that's all. Is that too much to ask?"

"I told you the truth when you first asked, and if you choose not to accept that I see no reason to offer you anything else!"

"No reason? When you and I are a serious couple, yet you let yourself be held by another man—a _soldier_ at that—and you see no reason to give me a better explanation?"

"Would you have preferred it if he had been a civilian?" Meg asked sarcastically.

Hawk flinched. "Throw my pacifism into my face, why don't you?" he asked bitterly. "Is that it? Are you tired of being with someone who has principles against killing, so you sneak behind my back to romance a soldier?"

For a moment, Meg wanted to slap him, but she restrained herself with an effort. "I see no purpose in continuing this conversation," she said slowly, willing her temper back under control. "We will only both of us say things we will later regret."

She spun on her heel and hurried down the street, ignoring his plea for her to come back. She was so angry and hurt she didn't even notice the hushed voices all around as she entered the Conservatory, or the distant sobbing in the background. It wasn't until she stormed into her room to confront three pale, frightened faces, that she realized something dreadful had happened.

"What is it?" she asked, all thoughts of Johnny, Hawk, and the fight flying from her mind.

Rose, her dainty face swollen and blotched with tears, merely shook her head wordlessly. Connie, for once, was speechless, and it was Samantha who answered.

"We just heard over the radio. Pearl Harbor, in Hawaii, was bombed today."

"Bombed?" Meg whispered.

"By the Japanese, so the reports say," Samantha said. She looked over at Rose, the lone Yankee in their group. "They say there's no doubt now that the States are in this war."

Meg rushed over to put her arms around her forlorn friend. "Oh, Rosy," she murmured in sympathy.

"At least … now … we're all in this together," Rose said brokenly.

Connie and Samantha joined their hug. "No question about that," Connie said. "We're all in this war now."


	29. Interlude

Hawk and Meg still hadn't made up their fight when Christmas break came. Meg was too busy comforting Rose to spare Hawk much of a thought, and when she did think of him, she was still angry. _Of course_ he was upset to see her hugging a soldier, and _of course_ he was abnormally sensitive about his pacifism, but really, if he cared about her as much as he claimed, he should have trusted her instead of jumping to all the wrong conclusions.

The other girls, of course, noticed that Meg and Hawk weren't spending any time together, but in their shock over Pearl Harbor, nobody found it worth mentioning—not even Samantha.

"A date which will live in infamy," American President Roosevelt declared, and just like that, the United States had entered the war.

"Stupid of Japan, really," Rose said, once she had regained some of her equilibrium. "They should have known that this would only provoke us to war, not prevent it."

"They likely hoped to cripple your Armed Forces enough that you _couldn't_ go to war," Connie pointed out.

"Well, they should have known better. We Yankees are a stubborn lot—attack us, and we'll fight you with pitchforks and rocks if we have to."

"Everyone says that with the States on our side, it won't be long now before we've won," Samantha said optimistically.

"I hope so—oh, I hope so!" Meggie prayed fervently, thinking of her family overseas—and a twin who was only a little over a year away from eighteen.

"I wouldn't count on it," Connie said sourly. "This truly has turned into another world war, and I don't think anything will end it soon. There are years of struggle ahead yet, girls. With the States in it now, we might actually have a chance to _win_, that's all."

"Well," Rose said with determination, "I've written to Geoff and given him strict orders not to get killed. He can become a hero if he likes, even get wounded slightly, but he simply has to come home to me."

"He should be perfectly safe, then," Samantha said sarcastically.

"Yes," Rose agreed serenely. "I told you he always does as I say."

Meanwhile, by the time Meg boarded the train to take her to Avonlea for Christmas, the Canadians were fighting the Japanese in Hong Kong; the Soviet Union had not only halted the German advance, but was fighting back; and in North Africa, the Allies were pushing General Rommel and his troops to retreat.

Thinking of North Africa reminded Meg that she had never yet read Will's letter, the one he had sent right before Pearl Harbor, and her fight with Hawk. So much had happened that day that she hadn't even given the letter another thought! Now, watching snow-covered fields flying past her window, she was finally free to pull it out and read it.

_November 12, 1941_

_Somewhere in North Africa_

_Dear Meg,_

_Are you awash in snow in Toronto? Eagerly awaiting the Christmas season with all its glory? It's hard for me, here, to remember there is even such a thing as winter. Oh, it gets cold at night in the desert, certainly: a bone-chilling cold that sinks deep into your bones and makes you think you'll never be warm again. Have no fear, though, by mid-morning we are all sweltering under the sun and wishing for the slightest breeze to cool us off._

_Africa is a cruel continent, no doubt about it. It either destroys you or makes you stronger. There are no half-measures here, no room for any weakness. It eats away at your frailties until you are either destroyed or refined._

_And yet—there is a strange beauty to it, too. It's so empty. Even with all of us here, our armies, fighting this war, we still have this concept of space. Looking up at the brilliant white-blue sky, it's hard to remember how important we feel ourselves to be. When I really let Africa soak into my soul, I feel as insignificant as a grain of sand, lost in this mighty desert._

_It's not just desert here, either. The Atlas Mountains are always somewhere in sight, standing imperiously proud, watching our struggles with indifference. They have seen many wars come and go over the centuries, wars that seemed as great and important to those who fought as our does to us. And yet, who remembers them? Who remembers the heroes, the victors, the losers? Only the mountains and the sky, and they have endured them all, and will still be here long after the sun bleaches our bones to dust._

_Upon reading this over, I realize this letter sounds morbid. Rest assured, I am not wallowing in melancholy. Rather, I feel even closer to God than I did before. Because, you see, though the mountains are impersonal and the desert cruel, He created them just as He did me, and He has existed before all things, and will outlast all things …_

_And He knows my name. He called me to serve Him. If I die here, my name might never go down in history, might never be remembered by anyone, but God will take note of it and welcome me to Heaven._

_It is a comforting thought, and a humbling one. And exhilarating and powerful and simple and shocking …_

_That's the amazing thing about God, isn't it, Meg? Words and feelings can never encompass Him. No matter what we say or how we feel or think, He is still greater than all we can say or do—just as the desert and mountains escape my ability to describe accurately._

_I am waxing eloquent. Sorry. I had meant to write you a jolly letter, all about the Kiwis and Aussies and Brits, and how even though we all speak the same language none of us understand each other, and how we manage to hobble along through innumerable cultural pitfalls, but my thoughts ran away with me, and I turned philosophical._

_Uncle Bruce sends his love. And in the spirit of family, I dare send mine, as well._

_Your "cousin,"_

_Will._

Meg set the letter down and stared out the window, but she no longer saw the white landscape. Instead, she was in Africa with Will, alternately sweating under the scorching sun and freezing under the pitiless moon, and coming to a deeper understanding of God through it all.

What a remarkable fellow Will was! Meg didn't think she'd ever met anyone quite like him. He was simple, yet deep. Cheerful, yet serious. Spiritual, yet still human, with human frailties.

He was a mass of contradictions, but through it all he was refreshingly _real_. Still feeling half-trapped in her stifling relationship with Hawk, Meg found Will's clarity of mind and strength of heart remarkable.

She wished she could be as strong. She even wished she could write to Will about her perplexities with Hawk, and her frustrations regarding their relationship, and ask his advice. Despite their pseudo-cousinship, though, she still didn't quite feel comfortable doing that. Peter, yes: Will, not yet.

* * *

The Christmas break sped by far too quickly. One minute, Meg was greeting all her family; the next, she was back on the boat, heading for Toronto. She hated to leave home again—every time it became a harder wrench—but she was looking forward to seeing the girls and resuming her classes. She had told Auntie Di during the break that she finally understood why her aunt felt so passionate about everyone receiving at least a rudimentary education.

"Even if I never go to college, or teach, or become a famous singer, I am a better, more well-rounded person for what I've learned," she said, and Auntie Di twinkled at her in quite her old manner and said she was glad.

She had told Matt about her fight with Hawk, and his advice had been typically Matt-like:

"Good riddance to bad rubbish."

"Oh Matt!" Meg cried, distressed. "What a terrible thing to say about anyone."

Matt set aside the wooden airplane he was whittling as a present for Roger (whose father was in the RAF) and looked her squarely in the eye. "What else do you expect me to say about the fellow who has caused my sister nothing but frustration and heartache for two years?"

Meg wanted to protest, but Matt continued without giving her a chance. ""At first you were flattered by his attention, so you let yourself think you liked him. Then you admired his principles and felt bad that everyone else looked down on him for being a pacifist, so you convinced yourself you cared more for him. Then you couldn't see a way out of the relationship without him acting like you broke his heart, so you tried to believe you were in love with him, and when that got too difficult, you tried to find a way to make both of you happy, which really ended up being you just keeping your mouth shut and going along with him, even after you had told him you didn't want to be as serious." He picked up the knife and went back to his whittling. "Have I left anything out?"

Meg sighed. Matt didn't talk much, but when he did, there was no point in arguing. He was always right. "Just the part where I convinced myself that Hawk was my chance to have the ideal romance, like Mama and Papa."

"When was that?"

"Ages ago. I soon realized that wasn't possible, but I think a part of me still hoped for it. Oh Matt, do you really think everything is over between Hawk and me?"

"It had better be," Matt said. "Meg, your problem is that you want everyone to be happy, so you do whatever you think is necessary to accomplish that, even if it means going against your own better judgment."

"Grandmère said something like that in Montreal," Meg admitted. She knew it was true.

"The thing is, if you aren't being true to yourself, you're living a lie, and in the long run, that'll be worse for whomever you're trying to make happy. You have to do what you know to be right, even if it's going to make someone upset or unhappy."

Meg moved from her seat by the stove and curled up at Matt's feet, resting her head against her knee. "When did you get so wise, brother o' mine?"

"Born that way," Matt said with a grin. "You just never appreciated me fully before."

"Well, I do now."

Neither twin realized that their father was hovering right outside the kitchen, shamelessly eavesdropping, and trying to hold himself in from bursting with pride over his son's uncanny ability to read people and his daughter's incurable sweetness. Shirley reflected to himself that the world had never seen children like his before.

And then he laughed at himself and thought that probably all parents since Adam and Eve had thought the same thing about their children! At least Adam and Eve would have been correct.

* * *

And so, thanks to Matt, Meg was heading back to school with a fierce determination to forgive Hawk … and finally, irrevocably, end their relationship. She had even written to Peter to tell him so—somehow, writing it down made it more real, and if she wavered in her decision, Peter could remind her of how important it was. In fact, he had sent her a note just before she left Green Gables, simply saying _"Good for you."_

At least, Meg reflected ironically, she could still feel she was making _some_ people happy by her choice.

Besides, maybe now Samantha would take up an interest in Hawk again. Meg suspected that the other girl was still attracted to him, even if his family pedigree wasn't as impeccable as Samantha's family would prefer. With Meg out of the picture, maybe the two could find happiness together. Samantha wasn't a singer, but she could certainly play Hawk's music on her violin.

Meg wrinkled her nose. What was she thinking, turning into a matchmaker! If she wasn't careful, she would soon be as bad as Dee.

Thinking of Dee reminded her of Johnny. She had, of course, told Matt and Papa about him, and Shirley had called Auntie Nan and Uncle Jerry to inform them. Auntie Nan was heartbroken, but Uncle Jerry was grimly resigned.

"He's got to find his own way," he said.

Dee was torn between worrying about her brothers and being _terribly_ proud that she now had _two_ brothers in uniform. None of the other cousins could claim such a distinction, except Polly, and since she was gone, too, Dee decided she didn't count. It had been almost three years since she had seen Johnny, so the possibility of him being injured or even killed didn't seem as real to her as it did to her parents, or to Meg.

Matt, too, was worried about Johnny, and more than that, afraid for himself. "Johnny's only a few months older than we are, Meg," he confessed to her. "What if … what if I have to join up? What if the States entering doesn't end things as quickly as everyone hopes?" He looked utterly wretched. "I can't kill someone, sis, I just can't … but I can't stay out of it, either, not when I know I could be of some use. I can't be a slacker," unconsciously echoing his father's words a generation earlier.

"We'll pray it won't come down to that," Meg said, threading her arm around his waist. "God won't ask you to do more than you can bear. Maybe," sounding doubtful despite her best effort, "maybe the States will turn the tide after all. In the meantime, we can just keep praying for Johnny."

"Amen to that," Matt agreed.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** It's been a while--but here is the latest chapter. I can't make any promises regarding quicker updates, but rest assured, I WILL finish this story sometime. I love Meg & co. too much to leave them hanging indefinitely._


	30. High Valley

In February, Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick received a letter from France. They never told anyone its contents, but shortly thereafter Polly wrote to Meg, telling her that she and Pierre were finally engaged.

_He said he wanted to wait to say anything to me until he could ask Mum and Dad's permission—wasn't that sweet! I know most would think it terribly old-fashioned, but I'm _glad _he's so chivalrous. As soon as they wrote back granting him permission, he wrote to me and asked me if I would be his wife when the war was over._

_Oh Meg, I'm so happy! It seems like all the fears I had for his safety, back when I didn't know—I thought, but I couldn't be _sure_—how he felt, have vanished in the night. Even though it seems to always be raining here, I am walking in sunshine. Part of me feels it is wicked to be so happy when so many around are miserable, but oh Meg, I've waited so long for this._

_He will survive this war; I know it. He will come back to me, and we will marry, and he will take up a professorship at a university, and during the summer holidays we will go excavating with Aunt Persis and Paulette._

_Now it sounds as though I'm romancing, but that really is what Pierre wants to do when the war is over. Even though he is young, he could get a professorship at any university he liked—he has such a fine reputation._

_Of course, we have already told Aunt Persis (shall I have to call her Mother Persis? How odd that will sound!), and she has given us her blessing. She is in her family's old home in Toronto, and has told me that I am welcome to come stay with her any time after I am done being a nurse. Of course I won't leave nursing now, not until the war is over. I have to do my part, just as Pierre is doing his._

_I think it's a comfort to Aunt Persis to know that at least one of her children has a future. Paulette didn't return to the Island with her—for all we know she's still in ****** ***********_

_That last bit will probably get censored out. _You_ know anyway, Meg._

[Meg did, indeed, know. The family had taken it as an accepted fact that Paulette was working to undermine the German occupancy in France. When Aunt Persis had returned home, Paulette refused to join her, insisting that she would never leave her beloved home country when it was in such danger. After the Second Armistice was signed and they still heard nothing from Paulette, Aunt Persis declared that her child was still there, working behind the scenes. "It's what I would do if I was twenty years younger," she said with snapping eyes."]

_Anyway, even though we all believe Paulette will turn up sometime, it's still comforting for Aunt Persis to _see_ one of her children making plans._

_Even Peter gave his blessing, though he said he couldn't imagine what Pierre was thinking, wanting to marry a child! And Bran wrote me a short note and told me Pierre had his sincere sympathies. Brothers!_

_Mrs. Mary Ford—I'm certainly not marrying too far out of the family, am I? Of course, since I am marrying a Frenchman, I suppose I will really be Madame Marie Ford._

_Now _that_ doesn't sound like me at all!_

Meg was delighted for Polly and Pierre. It was certainly a storybook romance—children together at Auntie Di's Orphan Home before Aunt Persis Ford had adopted Pierre and Paulette and Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick had taken the other three in as their permanent family, not seeing much of each other for several years after that, only to fall in love when they did meet, and then wait until they were old enough to declare their love … separated by war and heartbreak, only to finally come together at the end.

She hoped Pierre would come home. It would shatter Polly if he didn't.

She reminded herself sternly to not be gloomy. Any good news was a bright spot right now, with the news from Africa so bleak. As Rommel kept pushing the Allied troops, all Meg could think about was Will, and whether or not he was still safe. She always breathed a sigh of relief when a letter arrived from him, only to tense up immediately thereafter, waiting for the next. It was a dreadfully exhausting cycle.

At least she didn't have Hawk to worry about anymore. He hadn't taken her decision to end the relationship well, but for once in her life Meg stood firm in the sight of another's distress. She almost repented when he begged her (on his knees, no less!) to give him another chance, but Matt's voice kept sounding in her head, telling her that the truth was the kindest path, and she gently, firmly, told Hawk it was over.

Samantha was horrified ("Darling! He's so handsome, and he's crazy about you! And his family is so wealthy, and they adore you—are you mad?"), and Connie only mildly interested ("Oh well, if you didn't really like him like that, then I suppose it was good to end it now."), but Rose approved whole-heartedly.

"He would have _swallowed_ you whole, Meg. He didn't really care about you at all—not the real you. Only the you he'd constructed out of his imagination. He kept trying to force you to fit that image, and eventually Real Meg would have disappeared into Dream Meg."

Which was so profound that Meg could only stare at her. "Well, I wish you would have told me this months ago," she finally said. "It would have saved me—and Hawk—much heartache."

Rose simply smiled. "Some thing can't be told until after the fact, dear one."

* * *

In March, Peter finally went back to the front. Jocelyn was terribly reluctant to see him go, she wrote Meg, but she knew she couldn't keep him there any longer. Peter himself wrote Meg that he was getting positively molly-coddled, between Jocelyn and Lily. Nobody wrote anything about how Freddie's leave had gone, over Christmas, but the very fact that it was left out of the letters caused Meg to suspect everything was clear between the three.

And a letter from Lily mentioned, in passing, how much she had enjoyed meeting Freddie, and how very charming and kind he was.

_Polly wrote of him as spoiled, but I can't see it,_ she said. _Perhaps the war has changed him. It certainly has me. I can't imagine going back to the Glen now, and settling back into my old way of life. I want to continue to do something worthwhile with my life, even after the war has ended. Something to help restore some of the beauty to this world that the war has destroyed. I could do that back home, I suppose … but the Glen just seems stifling to me now._

Meg wondered what her clear-eyed brother would think of Lily's letter! no doubt Matt would see some deep yet simple reason behind all that, and make a pronouncement (like Lily marrying Freddie, for example!) that everyone else would think ridiculous until it came true in a few years.

Meg laughed. No, not even Matt would go so far as to see Lily as a Countess. Though, of all the Blythe children, she would be the most qualified for such a role, with her poise and grace.

* * *

In April, the school held another concert to raise money for the war effort. Once again, Meg sang (though this time without Hawk), and afterward Prof. Ashton approached her.

"That was lovely, Miss Meg," he said, smiling kindly at her.

Meg smiled back. She wasn't taking any mathematics class this year, so she hadn't seen much of her favorite professor except for passing him in the halls. "Thank you," she replied. "I'm afraid it wasn't as impressive as Laura's solo."

Laura Smythe, the top senior in the school, was preparing for an opera career, and her performance alone would have drawn a large crowd to the concert.

"Maybe not," Prof. Ashton conceded, "but personally, I would rather hear a sweet old English ballad to remind me of the goodness and purity in the world, over an Italian aria all about tragic love and misery, any day."

Meg dimpled at him. "So would I," she confessed.

The professor watched her later, as she walked off arm-in-arm with Rose. Now seventeen, she carried herself straight as a lance, with the supple ease of a willow wand. Her head had the tilt of one who has pride in herself and her heritage, yet no one could accuse Meg of being a snob or thinking too highly of herself. He sighed.

Even professors occasionally heard school gossip, and he knew that young Giraud was no longer Meg's chosen _beau._ In his heart of hearts, Prof. Ashton hoped that one day Meg would call him "Uncle Kip"—but with the bleak outlook in Africa, he feared it would never happen.

* * *

Meg shocked everyone (including herself) by not returning to Green Gables for spring break. Instead, she fulfilled a promise she had made to Rose ages ago and went—not to Boston, for Rose wasn't returning home either that year—but to High Valley, Colorado, Rose's future home, and home to her fiancé's family, the Templestowes.

She found High Valley a very different place than she had imagined it; where she had expected desert and cacti, she found mountains and rivers, beautiful flowers, stunning sunrises and sunsets, and an enormous clan of merry, chattering people, all very much like the Blythes in their affection for one another and welcoming spirit, though the accents were different.

She met Clover Templestowe, Geoff's grandmother, a darling elderly lady with soft blue eyes and a plaintive voice that belied her mischievous spirit and sense of fun. Grandmother Clover was very obviously the matriarch of the family, with Great-Aunt Elsie, Clover's younger sister, as a capable lieutenant.

There were other great-aunts and –uncles, as well as aunts and uncles, and Meg soon learned that, like the Blythes, "Aunt" and "Uncle" were based not so much on specific blood relation as age and affection.

They all adored Rose, and took Meg in as one of their own. Jo Carr, a happy-go-lucky tomboy who went on round-ups with the boys, wore trousers instead of skirts every day, and kept her black hair cropped close to her head, declared that she and Meg were meant to be friends, because they had the same first name. Isobel Templestowe, Geoff's older sister, lamented that she didn't have any more brothers to marry off to Meg, and even the lads, after seeing her impressive fishing ability, declared her a decent type.

"Of course, Wild Rose usually can be trusted to only bring sensible girls here," Theo Young confided to Meg. He was a month shy of eighteen, and eagerly awaiting his chance to join "Cousin Geoff" overseas. "There was this one girl, though—Samantha something-or-other—who was a real pain. We had to be polite, of course, but whew! We were some glad to see her go."

"Sammy's not so bad once you get used to her," Meg laughed. She liked Theo's blunt way of speaking; he reminded her a little of Matt; though in appearance he was nothing like, being tall, thin, and fair-haired with blue eyes.

Though Meg missed her family, she had a grand time with the Templestowe clan. Rose fit perfectly into their atmosphere of refreshing, invigorating life, a little thorny wild rose with surprising sweetness, blossoming freely in the open valley, no one trying to restrain it or force it to be cultivated.

"You should marry Theo, darling," Rose said, "And then you can live out here, too. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"I thought Theo had a girlfriend," Meg said.

Rose waved a hand. "He would drop her for you if I told him to."

Meg believed her. "Thank you, but no," she said. "I'll find my own husband—when the time comes."

"If he—whomever he may be—gives you any trouble, just call me," Rose said.

Clare Page, another cousin, overheard and laughed. "When I was in love with Rob and despairing that he would never notice me, I went to Rose. The next thing I knew—" she held up her left hand, showing Meg her twinkling diamond.

"How do you do it, Rosy?" Meg asked.

Rose looked demure. "That's my secret."

"If you come back this summer, you can see us get married," Clare invited. "Rob's going overseas, but not until after the wedding."

Meg thanked her for the invitation, but said that she didn't plan on going anywhere but Green Gables this summer.

Though she wouldn't put it into words, a niggling feeling at the back of her mind reminded her that this might be the last summer she and Matt had to spend together. She wouldn't give up a day of that, not for all the weddings in Colorado.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** This chapter (the High Valley part, anyway) was blatant self-indulgence. I love Susan Coolidge's "Katy" books, and created Rose's character simply for the sheer joy of bringing in some of my favorites from that series. I hadn't gotten to do as much with them as I wanted, so I shipped Meg off to Colorado just to throw some of the characters in. Maybe someday, if I ever finish all my current projects (HA!), I'll do a "Katy" fanfic._


	31. Death Comes

Matt and Meg had a golden summer. In later years, Meg would look back on that summer of 1942 as one of the happiest times of her life, despite the war, and despite what happened at the end. The twins practically lived outdoors, rambling here and there, hand-in-hand usually, soaking in the moments. They visited all the old favorite spots: Hester Gray's garden, the Lake of Shining Waters, The Haunted Wood, Lover's Lane, Violet Vale … all places that Grandmother had loved and named and passed down in family lore to her children and grandchildren.

The only place they didn't go was Echo Lodge. By tacit agreement, they would not visit there until Peter, Bran, and Polly were back. It "belonged" to the five of them, and it simply wouldn't be right to go there without the other three.

Shirley, more often than not, would abandon his farm work and architectural work and join them in their walks. They spent many a happy morning fishing, coming back to Green Gables to build a little fire in the orchard and fry their catch for lunch.

If a shadow occasionally darkened Matt's face; if worry suddenly flashed through Meg's eyes; if Shirley tightened his mouth once in a while, the other two didn't mention it. This was the last chance they had to be all three of them, personally untouched by the war. No one said anything, but they all knew in their hearts that the fighting would not be ended by next April. Matt still didn't know what he would do in the war, but he knew he would join—didn't have a choice, really.

Meg had already decided that this was her last year of school, despite a letter from Grandmamma promising financial support for her further musical education. She would graduate from her course a few short weeks after her eighteenth birthday, and then she would return home while Matt left.

After that, she dared not think. The future was so uncertain.

"You're not giving up a career in music just for Pop, are you?" Matt asked, one day when Meg casually mentioned her plan to come home after graduation. "He would hate that."

"I'm not giving up anything," Meg said with an unusual flash of spirit. "But I've spent most of the last three years in Toronto. I'm ready to be home for a while. If I decide—later—that I want to continue my training, I will. Right now I just want to be home."

Matt gave her a rueful grin. "So do I."

And that was the last of _that_ conversation.

* * *

Uncle Jem and Aunt Faith saw Walt join the army in June, leaving Ingleside barren of young people for the first time in decades. Even during the first war, they had Rilla there (and Jims, her war-baby, who was now all grown up and fighting himself). Aunts Una and Betsy brought Baby Katy and Gabe over as often as possible to fill the void.

Meg was sad to see Walt go, of course, but they had grown apart in recent years, far from the close friends they had been as children, when Meg would listen for hours to Walt's poetry. Instead of the heart-rending torture it had been to see Peter and Johnny leave, it was more a dull sorrow at bidding goodbye to yet another cousin.

_None of us have been killed,_ she wrote to Rose. _And Peter's the only one who's been even wounded. It can't last, though—the more we send over, the greater the chances of _someone_ getting injured. Lily wrote to me last week, terribly upset over the news that Vance Douglas was shot. He'd always had a crush on her, and she could barely stand him. Now she'll never get a chance to apologize._

_I am sorry for her—and for Mr. and Mrs. Douglas and Una—but I didn't know Vance all that well. And one of the Pye boys was killed last week, but since Matt and I didn't go to school for so many years, I'm not even very friendly with most of the Avonlea people our age. It's as if Death keeps creeping closer—but won't touch me yet._

_The suspense is almost worse than the actual event would be, I think._

Meg deeply regretted those words in August, right before leaving to go back to Toronto. For then, Death touched their world with a vengeance, when Aunt Persis showed up on Auntie Di's doorstep to say, in a dried-up, hollow voice, that Pierre had been killed in action. Then she learned that the event was far, far worse than the anticipation.

* * *

Polly didn't write. She wouldn't answer letters. It was as if the same bullet that killed Pierre Ford had killed her, too. Uncle Patrick even talked about going over to England to bring her back home, but Auntie Di wouldn't let him.

"She'll come home when she's ready," she said, dry-eyed and strong. "We can't force her."

Persis stayed at Tanglewood; she said she couldn't go back to Toronto right away. She had first met Paulette and Pierre, two bright-eyes, mischievous twins, when she worked with Di at the Orphan Home, and now that they were both lost to her, she needed her friend again. Her parents just weren't enough.

Her beautiful golden hair turned gray overnight, but she didn't even seem to notice. "He had such promise," she kept saying, "such a bright future."

"God had other plans," Uncle Patrick said, almost as though trying to convince himself.

Persis looked at him fiercely. "Then God is selfish, taking the best of our youth for himself! He has the angels—why does he need our sons, too?"

And she wept.

Auntie Di wouldn't weep—couldn't. Though Pierre was Persis' son, he had been her charge first. She still remembered him as that little street boy she had first seen standing on her doorstep shortly after opening the Home, clutching his sister's hand, shyly asking for some food. She had taken them into the Home then and there, and into her heart, where they stayed forever after.

She took it upon herself to tell Bran and Peter. Peter was mostly sad for Polly's sake, but Bran took it hard.

_We were such chums when we were kids, little Mum,_ he wrote. _You remember—always into everything. Pierre was my first real friend, even if we did bond over causing trouble. I can't believe he's gone. I was thrilled when Polly told me he was going to become a real brother—now he's dead? It just isn't possible. If the war can take Pierre, who else will it take?_

_I've always thought I was invincible—but I'm suddenly scared, Mum._

Di wrote back the shortest letter she'd ever sent.

_You aren't allowed to get killed. I forbid it._

Bran's response was even shorter.

_Thanks, Mum.

* * *

_

Meg hated to have to go back to school when the family was grieving so. What if Polly came home unexpectedly, and she wasn't there? Her cousin was going to need her. And even if Polly did stay in England, Meg felt that she ought to stay and help. Auntie Di had her hands full with Aunt Persis on top of Miranda and the children.

It took both Shirley and Matt to persuade her to return. "You've come so far, Meg—we can survive a few more months in order for you to graduate," Shirley told her.

"Things will only get worse," was Matt's less cheery statement. "You might as well wait to come home until things are really bad."

And so she returned—but her heart wasn't in it. Death had entered their world—who would He take next?


	32. Polly's Secret

_Dear Meg,_

_Polly's home. That's the most important thing. As for the rest of it—I'm terrible at telling stories. You'll have to wait until Auntie Di writes to you. Or Polly herself._

_I'm also disappointed. I thought she was made of stronger stuff. I think I know _why_ she did what she did—but I wish she hadn't._

_But she's home. That's what really matters._

_I miss you._

_Love,_

_Matt._

Little by little, Meg heard the full story—even the parts of it nobody else knew. There were times, she reflected, when she really would have preferred to _not_ be everyone's confidante. It was more burden than blessing—there was a reason ignorance was bliss.

* * *

One early November morning, Polly, in much Aunt Persis' manner, showed up on Tanglewood's doorstep. Uncle Patrick opened the door to her dispirited knock, yelped, and drew her into a ferocious hug. He was so happy he didn't even notice that she didn't hug him back, or that her green eyes were dull and lifeless. He was too busy asking why she hadn't let them know she was coming home to even pay attention to the gleam of gold on her left hand.

That was left to Auntie Di to discover, and she was ever afterward thankful that Persis was up at Green Gables that morning, helping Shirley with some new calves. She was pouring Polly a cup of tea, trying not to worry her daughter with questions, when she saw the ring.

_"What's that?"_ she demanded, setting the teapot down with a thump.

Uncle Patrick followed the direction of her eyes and nearly choked on his own tea. "Polly—my Polly—did you marry—Pierre? Before—before it happened?"

Polly shook her head. "No, Dad," she said tonelessly.

"Then who …" he sputtered. Di was looking her most dangerous, her eyes snapping emerald sparks.

"Yes, who?" she repeated.

"Elliot," Polly answered, and for once in her life, Diana Samuels was shocked into silence.

"Elliot _Douglas_?" Patrick said.

"Yes," Polly said.

Slowly, monosyllable by monosyllable, they dragged the tale out of her. Polly had heard about Pierre's death at the same time Elliot was returning from compassion leave. They met in England—they remembered each other from all the times Polly had spent with Lily in Glen St. Mary—they started talking—

"And we got married."

"But Polly—what about Pierre?" Patrick asked, while Di tried to wrap her brain around the thought of her baby daughter just up and marrying a casual acquaintance.

"Pierre is dead, Dad," Polly said, a world of despair in that flat statement. "I can't bring him back, just like Elliot can't bring Vance back. Why can't we find comfort in each other?"

"Polly, do you love him?" Di asked gently.

Polly lifted haunted eyes to her mother's face. "No."

Patrick buried his face in his hands.

"It's okay, Dad," Polly told him. "He doesn't love me either."

"That," Patrick said through white lips, "doesn't make it even close to okay." He had loved this girl fiercely from the first moment she had entered his life, and seeing her come to this broke his heart beyond what he thought possible.

Polly drifted upstairs after her tea, and before Di and Patrick had a chance to do more than stare at each other, Persis came in, and they had to break the news to her.

Surprisingly, she took it fairly well. Di, in particular, thought that she would be furious at this betrayal of Pierre's memory. Instead, she just stood quietly, brushing away a few stray tears.

"Poor child," she said compassionately. "She didn't know what she was doing."

Before Polly came down from her nap, Persis packed her bags and left for Ingleside.

"I know Aunt Anne and Uncle Gil will give me a haven," she said. "And the last thing Polly needs is to have to face me right now. Tell her—tell her I understand, Di. Remember, I was a VAD in the last war. I saw girls right after hearing that their husbands or fiancés were killed. Poor child," she repeated.

It wasn't until Meg came home at Christmas—a bleak, dismal Christmas—that she heard about it from Polly herself.

"Mrs. Douglas, once she got over being mad, wanted me to come stay with her and Una until the war is over and Elliot comes home," she said. Two months at home had filled her thin frame back out, though the dead look in her eyes had yet to vanish. At least she could carry on a conversation with other people now, which, as Matt told Meg, was not the case when she first came home.

"I can't live with her, though. She's so loud—and abrasive—and she pries into everything. I couldn't bear it."

Meg understood. She couldn't endure Mrs. Douglas for long on the best of days. After a shock like Polly's, it would be unendurable torture, like sandpaper on a raw wound.

"At least here, people generally leave me alone—and there's Avery and Sel," Polly continued.

"And Miranda," Meg said ironically.

Something like a smile flickered across Polly's pale face. "Now that I'm a married woman, Miranda treats me with a bit more respect."

Meg gently placed her hand on Polly's. "Dear—I want to be supportive—but I have to ask. Do you think you and Elliot will be able to be happy?"

Polly shrugged. "Right now I don't even think I know what happiness is. I don't really have any hope of ever being happy again."

"Then why—why did you marry Elliot?"

Polly met her eyes squarely. "I had to. You see …"

"What?" Meg asked, dreading the answer even before she heard it.

For the first time, Polly's indifferent façade cracked. Her lips began to tremble. "Oh Meggie … Meg … I'm so ashamed. I didn't mean … I was just so lonely … and Elliot _understood_, he and Vance were best friends, not just brothers … and, and …"

Meg silently handed her a handkerchief. Polly daubed at her eyes. "You have to promise me you will be as surprised as I am when I 'find out' that … that … oh Meg, I'm going to have a baby."

Meg didn't know what to say. Part of her felt repulsed, while another part just felt sympathy and pity. Whatever she had been expecting, this wasn't it. This sort of thing happened to other girls, other families … not their own. Not their Polly. For a moment, Meg wondered if she knew anything about the trembling girl sitting before her at all.

Then she reminded herself that this was her cousin, her Polly, no matter what she had done, no matter what mistakes she had made. Nothing could change that. She leaned forward and hugged her cousin.

"No matter what, I still love you," she said.

Polly sniffed. "Thanks," she replied simply. "We—we got married even before we knew about the baby—we knew we'd been wrong and needed to make it right. That very next day he found a chaplain who married us with no questions asked. He—he felt as ashamed as I did, worse, I think, because he thought he should have been stronger. Then he went back to the front, and I found out, and I had to tell him, and he told me to go home. Don't worry, he said. We'll be all right. It'll all work out. Just keep yourself and the baby safe."

"At least you did the right thing," Meg said inadequately.

"Too late," Polly said bitterly. "Meg—do you think God hates us now? Will He hate our baby?"

_"No,"_ Meg said firmly. However out of her depth she was, she could answer that with certainty. "Polly, God won't hate you for making a mistake. And He'll never hate an innocent baby for his or her parents' flaws."

Polly seemed a little comforted by that, and the girls never brought the matter up again. Meg went back to school after the holidays, sadder and wiser.

And yet—a small part of her was excited. Polly was the first cousin to marry—certainly the first to have a baby. It was the next generation, and Meg was curious and eager to see what would follow.

Provided, of course, the rest of the cousins returned home. And she couldn't forget, no matter what else happened, that she and Matt would be eighteen in four short months.

What would happen then?

* * *

_**Author's Note:** I was somewhat hesitant about this, but after all, even in LMM's world, life can't always be innocent and pure. Leslie and Owen fell in love while Leslie was married to another man; Cissy Gaye was an unwed mother; Jane Stuart's parents were separated ... this is life. Love it or hate it, let me know what you think of Polly's secret!_


	33. The Last Year

"Oh Meg, did you hear?" Rose burst into their room, waving a newspaper. "The Germans have surrendered in Stalingrad—the Soviets have defeated them! It's the turning point in the war, I can feel it."

Meg dropped the letter she was reading and hugged Rose impulsively. "Oh Rosy!" she cried. "That's the best news I've had in ages. Hurrah for the Soviets!"

"Even Napoleon couldn't defeat them, back when they were Russia," Connie chimed in, following on Rose's heels. "Say what you will about them, nobody can defend their homeland better."

"It helps that winter lasts forever there and is colder than anyplace on earth," said Rose, rolling her eyes emphatically.

"Whatever the reason, oh, I'm so glad," Meg said. "This makes up for the news about Bran."

"The wounded one?" Samantha asked, just now entering the room.

Meg nodded. They had heard just a few weeks ago that Bran had been injured slightly in his left leg. Most of the family's reaction was shock rather than sorrow—nobody had believed that Bran could be hurt. Auntie Di seemed grimly resigned ("Both my boys wounded in body, and my daughter fatally injured in spirit.") but Matt said that Uncle Patrick had collapsed upon hearing it, and that Uncle Jem came to see him and ordered him to stay off his feet for the rest of the winter. Between Polly's marriage and Bran's injury, his heart couldn't keep up.

Meg's letter, now lying abandoned on the floor, however, had brought her some measure of relief. It was from Jane, who in her inimitable Jane fashion, had managed to get herself to the field hospital where Bran was recuperating before being sent back to the front.

_Don't fret, Meg,_ she wrote. _I'll see to it that he is fully recovered before they let him go. If I have to tie him down, smuggle him into Wales, swear that he has leprosy … whatever it takes. The Nazis shan't take our Bran._

Meg had never thought about it before, but when it came to single-minded determination, Jane reminded her somewhat of Rose.

"The war will be over by spring," Rose now declared.

"Oh, Rose," Connie shook her head. "One victory does not a war win."

"Don't squelch me, Connie," Rose said. "I'm dreaming. The war will be over by spring, all the rest of our boys will come home, Geoff and I will get married, and we'll all live happily ever after."

Samantha tossed a pillow at her. "Can't you be serious for even a moment, Wild Rose?"

"Life would be dull if everyone was serious," Rose said. "I was put into this world to make people smile. I'm simply exercising my _raison d'être_."

"I thought we were put on this earth to do good," Connie objected, always ready to toss aside a frivolous thing like war for a really good philosophical debate.

"_You_ may have been," Rose said. "I was put here to bring joy to others."

"How do you know that?" Connie challenged.

"Because it is what I am best at," Rose said serenely. "Therefore, it is only logical that God put me here for that purpose."

Connie shook her head. "That's _ill_ogical, Rose."

"It makes perfect sense," Rose said. "You, Connie, are best at making people think, so that is why God put you here—you are meant to challenge others. I make people smile, brighten up their days with my nonsense, and if that is what I do best, then why should I try to force myself to be someone I'm not?"

"What about Meg and me?" Samantha asked in amusement.

"You, Sammy, help us realize what is truly important in life."

"I do?"

"Yes—usually because you focus on the non-essentials and that makes others see how unimportant such things are and then discover what truly is important."

Samantha looked as though she ought to be insulted, but wasn't quite sure.

"And Meg …" Rose looked fondly at the Island girl. "Meg shows us how to love."

"How do I do that?" Meg asked, half-embarrassed and half-pleased.

Connie answered for Rose. "Even I know that one: because you are so loving yourself." She crossed the room to kiss Meg's cheek.

"Enough philosophy," Samantha cried. "Perhaps I do focus on the non-essentials, but I think food is slightly important to life, and if we miss lunch, there won't be much left in life worth living after all!"

"Try saying _that_ ten times fast," was Rose's only response as they left for the dining hall.

* * *

Meg worked hard that year. Not that she had ever slacked off in her schoolwork—not when Grandmamma and Grandfather were spending so much to keep her there, and when she was sacrificing that which she loved best to stay—but now, with graduation looming, she determined to make her family proud. She was extremely thankful now that she had broken off her relationship with Hawk—the distraction he afforded would have been too much for her right now.

Samantha even approached her regarding Hawk one day. "Dearest, he looks so pale and ill. He's probably going to fail—and you know he stayed on an extra year because a musical tour of the Continent is obviously impossible—and now it will all be for nothing, because he is pining for you."

Meg felt a pang, but Rose interceded. "Well, that's just silly of him, then." She passed around a box of chocolates just received from Boston, a small, unexpected treat in these days of extreme rationing. "Meg broke up with him last year. Why should he stay here another year if only to be miserable and fail?"

"I think he was hoping you would relent," Samantha answered Rose's question, but spoke to Meg.

"Then he's even more foolish than I thought," Rose said.

Samantha sighed and shook her head.

Meg hadn't had to say a word.

She was almost ashamed at how little she truly did miss Hawk. In fact, she never even thought of him at all, unless someone like Samantha brought him up. They didn't have any classes together, and if they passed in the corridors, she simply nodded and smiled, just as she would to any acquaintance.

She had told Grandmother Blythe all about it last summer, confessing how foolish she felt over the whole affair, how she tried to force herself to love someone who didn't even know or care who she really was! Grandmother had laughed.

"At least you realized your mistake before he proposed. I assumed I was in love with someone once just because he seemed to match my ideal—and I nearly agreed to marry him before I suddenly saw that I didn't even _like_ him—that he was the most boring person I knew!"

"Oh, Grandmother!" Meg had cried. "I thought you and Granddad had always loved each other."

Grandmother gave something that would have been called a snort in anyone younger. "The first time I met your grandfather I smashed a slate over his head."

Meg knew _that_, of course. Everyone in the family knew that—why, Teddy and Baby Katy had enacted a dramatic representation of the event at the last family reunion, with Baby Katy gleefully smashing a china plate over poor Teddy's head. Granddad had laughed harder than he had since the war began.

She just hadn't realized that Grandmother had ever thought she could love someone _besides_ Granddad.

"When did you finally know you loved each other?"

"He knew long before I did," Grandmother said ruefully. "He was always fearfully perceptive, your grandfather—rather like Matty. I mean Matt. I, on the other hand, didn't realize until he almost died." She shivered. "And then I thought I would die, too, if he left the world thinking I didn't care." She shook her white head. "But God was merciful—look at how many years He has given us, and all our wonderful blessings."

"How did you know, though?" Meg persisted. "How does anyone know when it's true love, and not just butterflies in the tummy?"

Grandmother smoothed a soft hand over Meg's chestnut curls. "You'll know, dear little girl. When you find the right one, you'll care for him enough to give up everything for him, if necessary. You'll work with him, stay with him, weep with him—aye, and laugh, for without laughter how can any of us survive?—and you'll know that you want nothing more than to go through life hand in hand with him. Love isn't about the romance, the moonlit walks, the kisses and flowers (although those are very nice, too). It's about commitment, and trust, and respect, and most of all, friendship."

Meg sighed. "The way you make it sound, I'll have to marry Matt."

Grandmother's silver laughter rang out across Rainbow Valley, followed after a brief moment by Meg's rich soprano mirth.

Remembering Grandmother's words now helped her shrug off Samantha's pinpricks. As Rose said, if Hawk had come back for one more year _only_ to try to win her back, it was a waste of his parents' money and _he_ should be ashamed, not she.

All four girls were determined to excel this year. Connie was one of the brightest scholars in their class, but even she was pushing herself, spending long hours locked inside a practice room with her French Horn.

"I know I can handle the academic part of the tests," she confided to Meg. "It's the music part I worry about. What if I fail?"

Meg knew that Connie was hoping to audition for the Toronto Symphony after graduation, _and_ attend university. "You'll do just fine," she assured the other girl. "I, on the other hand, am likely to forget my own name during the exams, and sing 'Twinkle Little Star' for my final performance!"

"Well, that would be something original, at least," Rose commented, popping her head out of her book. "The examiners would never forget you."

Meg threw a cushion at her. Rose merely caught it, placed it under her head, and went back to her studying.

Samantha turned even more prickly than usual as the school year waned. Her grandmother expected her to earn top marks in everything, and poor Sammy still wasn't sure what she wanted to do after school. She didn't care about university, or performing, or teaching. She just wanted to live away from her family. Meg knew, though Samantha didn't, that Rose had written to her parents to ask if Samantha could come stay with them after graduation, at least until she found her place.

That was the sort of thing Rose did.

Even Wild Rose was caught occasionally studying now. "If Geoff can go out and fight for freedom, the least I can do is give my all to these tests," she announced calmly. Then her face crumpled into mock horror. "But oh, it _is_ difficult!" she mourned.

She wasn't pursuing further education or a career, either, although she said she might give music lessons to anyone in High Valley or the nearby city of St. Helens who would be willing to endure her as a teacher.

"Just to keep a sense of independence," she said, "after Geoff and I get married. I hear many women feel stifled, although I think marriage will be perfectly lovely. Still, it's always best to be prepared."

Which statement resulted in _three_ cushions flung at her head.

They none of them forgot the war, even in the midst of their deepest studies. From seemingly unimportant things ("What _shall_ we do for graduation dresses?" Samantha mourned) to the vital (Meg was acutely aware of the passing time as each day crept closer to her eighteenth birthday), war pervaded every moment, until they were all heartily sick of it.

"It's exhausting," Connie said. "You can't keep up a fever pitch of fear, but you can't relax, and so your senses just get dulled. You feel numb to everything, not just the war."

"I wish I could feel numb about these exams," Rose scowled. Then she looked guilty. "Oh girls, I don't mean that I don't care about the war! I'm not that shallow, truly. I just have such a habit of turning unpleasant topics into something light that I do it without even thinking, even when I shouldn't."

Meg hugged her. "We know that, you goose," she said affectionately. "You are our darling Wild Rose, and we love you just the way you are."

"Four years!" Rose sighed. "We've been friends for four years now. Can you believe it? We only need Merrill back to make our group complete."

"We haven't _all_ been friends all that time, Rosy," Samantha said, exchanging a smile with Meg.

Meg smiled back. It was hard to believe she had almost hated Samantha at first. Now—well, though they would never be as close as she and Rose, she couldn't imagine disliking Samantha. As Uncle Patrick was fond of saying, it took all sorts to make a world.

Rose sighed. "I will be so happy to go home—and then to High Valley to wait for Geoffy to return. But oh! I'll never be a schoolgirl again, and I will miss you all and our life here so!"

And Meg, though she wouldn't have put it in just those terms, found herself in complete agreement with the sentiment.


	34. A Dangerous Escapade

Matt waited to do anything regarding the war until after Meg's graduation. It wasn't fair, he told her, for him to overshadow this accomplishment. It was only the difference of a month, anyway.

Meg was so happy to postpone him leaving that she almost didn't care about graduating. _Almost_. After her performance final (for which she did _not_ sing 'Twinkle, Little Star'), she wandered outside with a dazed look on her face, matching the dozens of other students just finishing their finals. She was sure she had passed—she just didn't know how well she had done. And oh, she wanted to do well for her family's sake! Education was so important to the Blythes—Grandmother was the first Avonlea girl ever to go away to college, and all her and Granddad's children except Aunt Rilla had at least a B.A. Graduating from Conservatory might seem small compared to their accomplishments, but it was more than Meg had ever expected of herself, and she did so want them to be proud.

Her Irving grandparents, as well—they were coming up for her graduation, and she wanted them to see that their money had not been wasted.

Besides all that, Meg wanted to prove to herself that she had gained something worthwhile from these last four years, that they hadn't been pointless. She knew she had grown in spirit, but she hoped she had grown in education as well.

At any rate, it was done now. She had put forth her best effort, and she would just have to wait to see where she landed in the ranks.

Connie was the last of the four to finish all her finals. The day she came back into their room and collapsed across Rose's bed, Meg felt a sense of finality. A door was irrevocably closing behind them all.

"Oh girls, we must do something to celebrate!" Rose said, buffeting Connie with a pillow until that girl sat up.

"What do you have in mind?" Samantha asked.

"Sleep?" Connie asked hopefully.

"Nonsense!" Rose said. "We should go on a bat—one last hurrah of girlhood before we're fully adults forever and ever, world without end, amen."

"We aren't graduated yet, though," Meg pointed out.

"No, but we have passed a … a … what word am I looking for?"

"An epoch in our lives?" Meg asked with a smile, thinking of Grandmother Blythe and her many "epochs."

"Yes, exactly," Rose said. "An epoch, and we must mark it somehow."

"Shall we go into the city and get riotously drunk?" Connie asked dryly.

"Not _that_ wild," Rose amended.

Meg sighed and leaned back in the window seat, ruffling her hair with her fingertips. "I'm up for anything," she said. "Not only have I finished all my finals, I got another letter from Jane today, saying that Bran was on the mend and driving the Sisters to distraction. _Plus_ Polly wrote to tell me Uncle Patrick is doing better."

Polly could no longer hide her condition, but while everyone might suspect the truth, they were gracious enough to pretend they believed she had gotten pregnant on her wedding night. If any of the crueler gossips in Avonlea said differently, they were at least decent enough to do it out of earshot of any of the Blythes or Samuels.

"Well, what shall we do, then?" Rose cried impatiently.

"Another harbor cruise, like we did for Meg's sixteenth birthday?" Samantha suggested.

"Ice cream sodas at the drugstore and the cinema?" Connie said.

"A hat-buying expedition?" Meg said, her eyes twinkling with fun at the memory from their first year. _What_ was it Rose had called herself? Rosamond Fletcher … something, something Greye.

Rose shook her head. "No, none of those are exciting enough … Girls!" She leapt to her feet and whirled around in a circle. "I've had the most brilliant idea! It's the perfect way to celebrate ending our schooling."

"Well, what is it, then?" Connie asked.

"Oh no, if I tell you you'll all come up with objections."

"Is it something we ought not to do?" Meg asked doubtfully.

Rose placed a hand over her heart and composed her face into the picture of innocent solemnity. "Girls, have I ever led you astray?"

The other three glanced at each other.

"Never mind." Rose coughed. "Just trust me, one last time."

And such was her power of persuasion, that despite their doubts, the girls soon found themselves scrambling into their pretty dresses and shoes and fixing their hair.

"Just a little bit of lipstick, Meg," Samantha pleaded, standing before the Island girl with a red tube in her hand.

Meg shook her head resolutely. "No lipstick, no mascara, no powder. I don't _like_ putting things on my face. It feels funny."

"Quite right, too," Rose said briskly. "Meg's not the make-up type of girl. Now then ladies, do we have hats and gloves?"

"Where _are_ we going, Rosy?" Connie tried one last time, but Rose just shook her head and led them out of the school building and down the street to board the streetcar. People smiled to see them go, four tall girls meekly following one petite, playful young lady, like ducklings waddling after the mother duck.

Once aboard the 'car, Rose surveyed her charges with satisfaction. "You look lovely, my pets."

Meg was in a simply-styled crimson dress, an unexpected Christmas present from Grandmère, who had sent a little note along with it stating that although she couldn't have Meg as a granddaughter she hoped she could always consider her a friend. The flame-like frock provided a subtly evocative contrast to Meg's clear brown skin and dark hair and eyes, and showed off her slender frame to its best advantage.

Connie was wearing one of Samantha's cast-offs, altered to fit her stronger figure. The deep green set off her unusual amber eyes, and the ruffles softened her angular face.

The blond Samantha was in her favorite sapphire blue, with a crisp white collar to highlight her perfectly reddened lips and darkened eyelashes.

Privately, Meg thought Rose looked like a mischievous dryad in her pale green clinging frock and dancing blue eyes. Not a beech tree or a birch … nothing so stately or so fragile. An ash tree, more likely … strong but supple.

The streetcar bell rang, and Rose looked up. "This is our stop!"

They dismounted, and Connie narrowed her eyes sharply.

"Rose," she said warningly.

"What?" that girl asked innocently.

"That is the Exhibition Grounds!"

"_Is_ it?"

"Oh, Rose!" Meg cried. Everyone knew that the Exhibition Grounds were being used as a training camp for the RCAF. In fact, the teachers at the Conservatory warned the students—especially the girls—not to venture over there alone, ever.

"It's all right, ladies," Rose said soothingly. "There's a dance going on here this evening for some of the soldiers soon to be deployed. We're being _patriotic_, helping those poor boys have one final pleasant memory before heading overseas."

"We'll be in such big trouble in anyone from school finds out we're here," Connie warned.

Rose shrugged. "What can they do to us now? Refuse to let us graduate? We've already taken all our finals."

"But Rose, what about—you know—everything we've been told about the soldiers?" Meg asked.

Rose waved a hand in the air. "It's just a dance, Meg. Lots of local girls will be here—it was one who told me about it, in fact. Besides, I'm sure most of that is just rumor. Your cousins—my Geoff—they would never do anything wrong toward a girl. More of the soldiers must be like them than we are led to believe."

Meg thought of Elliot and Polly, and considered that even "good" people could do wrong things in certain circumstances, but family loyalty forced her to hold her tongue.

"Well, I think it's a grand idea," Samantha said. "Shall we, ladies?" And she would have led them straight through the center of the Grounds if Rose hadn't taken over and steered them correctly.

The dance itself was being held under a pavilion by the shores of Lake Ontario. As the girls approached, music and lights spilled out over the water. They could see several couples already dancing the jitterbug. Connie's eyes started to sparkle.

"Maybe this will be fun," she said.

"That's the spirit!" Rose said encouragingly.

Meg was still uncertain, but she didn't want to be a spoilsport, so she continued to keep her mouth shut.

They had no sooner than entered the pavilion when a young man in RCAF blue swung Samantha into the dance. Rose soon followed, and it wasn't long before even Connie succumbed, leaving Meg all alone on the outskirts. Several soldiers asked her to dance, but she shook her head smilingly at them all. It wasn't that she didn't _trust_ them exactly … but Sammy's partner was holding her a little too close than what Meg would have found comfortable, and overall she just thought it best to watch.

Besides, she'd only jitterbugged once or twice, with the girls, in the halls at school. She was very good at old-fashioned dances, like the waltz and even the tango, but she always tripped over her own feet when it came to the modern dances.

"Care to dance, luv?" yet another pilot asked, grinning at her ingratiatingly.

Meg shook her head. "Thank you, no," she said politely.

He stepped a bit closer. He was rather a handsome lad, with thick black hair and snapping brown eyes, but Meg didn't like the cocky expression his face bore. "Why'd you come, then, if not to dance?"

"I'm observing," Meg invented spur-of-the-moment.

"A reporter, are you?" he asked mockingly. Meg knew she didn't look _anything_ like a journalist, or indeed anything but what she was: a simple Island girl.

"Come now," he said before she could answer, grabbing her hand. "You've got to give me one dance—and maybe a kiss. For your country!"

Meg tried unsuccessfully to pull free. "Unhand me," she demanded imperiously, sounding for all the world like her Grandmamma Irving. "I will _not_ be treated in such a manner."

"Oh-ho, a little spitfire, are you? So much the better."

He continued to pull her toward the dance floor—his arms were starting to come around her—

Meg was just starting to get truly frightened in addition to angry, when she heard a most welcome voice.

"Miss Meg!"

She craned her neck to see the tall, distinguished man frowning in her direction. "Professor Ashton!" she cried in a mix of relief and horror. He would rescue her—but oh, to be caught here by a professor!

He was by her side in one bound, scowling at the bewildered pilot.

"Release this young lady _at once_," he ordered, and the young man recognized authority when he heard it.

"Yes sir," he said smartly, and dropped Meg's hand.

"And apologize," Prof. Ashton said.

The pilot inclined his head, looking sheepish. "Sorry, miss. Forgot my manners there."

"I should think so," Meg said crisply, still shaken. Then she relented, thinking that, after all, he _was_ going to be facing the enemy soon. "I forgive you," she added graciously.

"Much obliged," he said, and gave her a comradely grin before vanishing into the crowd.

Prof. Ashton took Meg's arm and steered her away from the pavilion toward the gleaming water of Lake Ontario.

"Whatever are you doing here, Miss Meg? Don't you know how dangerous this is for a young girl alone?"

Meg hated to see the disappointment in his eyes, but loyalty wouldn't allow her to blurt out that it was Rose's idea and she didn't want to be there at all.

"I'm not alone," she said instead. "Rose, Connie, and Samantha are here too. We—we wanted to do something to celebrate finishing school."

No teacher in the entire Conservatory had spent four years with Rose under the same roof without knowing about her pranks and madcap ideas. Prof. Ashton looked at Meg's distressed face, back to the dance floor, and at Meg again. He smiled.

"I understand."

And Meg felt sure that he _did_, and warmed to think that his good opinion of her was restored.

"I'm glad you aren't alone," he continued, "but it still is not wise to be here at all. You girls may be eighteen and think yourselves quite capable of handling anything at all, but I can only think that your parents would not want you here un-chaperoned. If you will wait here, I will fetch the others and take you back to school."

"Thank you," she said in relief.

One by one, the other girls trickled out of the crowd toward Meg. Samantha was the last, and she scowled blackly at Prof. Ashton as he firmly escorted her to the streetcar stop.

"We aren't children, you know," she told him pertly.

He gave her arm a gentle shake. "Then I suggest you stop acting like one. This is not a game, ladies. You left the school without telling anyone where you were going, to sneak into a place you knew was considered risky. If, God forbid, anything had happened to you, how would we have known where to find you, where to even start looking? How could we ever have explained to your parents that we'd let you do something so foolhardy? These soldiers have been training for months to lose all sense of decency, simply so they can kill the enemy without wallowing in guilt over it. The military needs them to be animals, not gentlemen, and you are asking too much of them to expect them to behave like gentlemen to you, after we've broken them, simply because you are too naive to know what to expect."

Even Samantha was silenced by that. Connie's face was stricken, and Rose was openly crying. Meg's own stomach twisted, thinking of her family and friends who were soldiers, and her beloved twin who was likely to become one. Was it true? Were they really losing their very humanity?

Prof. Ashton saw their penitent expressions and softened his voice. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be so harsh, but you needed to know the gravity of what you were doing. War is not a glamorous business of handsome men in uniforms and fun little flirtations, though the propaganda makes it seems so. It's a dirty, ugly business, and the sooner you realize that the better off you will be."

"It's my fault," Rose said, sniffing. "I can't take anything seriously, and I made them come down here … they didn't even know until we got here."

"Yes, but we could have turned around and left," Connie said. "We're all too blame, Professor."

"Are you going to tell the school about it?" Samantha asked in a small voice. "Are they going to stop us from graduating?"

He smiled kindly. "Since you seem to realize what a mistake you made … as long as you promise me you'll never do anything like that again …"

"We won't!" they chorused in unison.

" …then I think we can keep this little episode to ourselves."

"Thank you," Rose said.

They boarded the streetcar, and Meg abandoned the girls to sit in the back with the professor.

"Professor," she said anxiously, "Are they all like that? All the soldiers … you said they had to become animals, but … Peter, and Bran, and Will, and all the rest of our boys? Them, too?"

"They don't lose _all_ humanity," he told her gently. "And it is entirely possible—even likely—that you girls would have been just fine at that dance, and those boys with whom you danced would have gone off with a pleasant memory of pretty girls and sweet smiles. But," he said honestly, hating to shatter her illusions of the world but knowing he couldn't lie to those clear eyes, "to kill another human being, you do have to lose _something_ innate inside of you. And with that gone, other morals and ethics are loosened, too. And for every decent soldier who would ask for nothing more than a dance and a kiss, there is at least one who would want something … else."

Meg was silent. Then, softly but vehemently, she said:

"I _hate_ war!"

"So don't we all," Prof. Ashton sighed.

"So don't we all."

* * *

_**Author's Note: **I realize this may seem a little harsh toward the soldiers--and after all, USO dances were quite common and respectable in the States--but there is a darker side to war, even in the training, than much of the nostalgic fiction would have us believe. As Prof. Ashton said to Meg in the end, the girls were most likely perfectly safe, BUT I needed to use something as a device to show the uglier side of what war did to people's characters._

_Plus I've been reading Charles Todd's Inspector Rutledge mysteries and have a very pessimistic view toward the wars altogether right now.  
_


	35. Graduation

Meg stood in front of the mirror and smoothed her white dress across her waist. She hadn't, at first, thought she would be able to have a white dress for graduation. With rationing the way it was, spending money on something so impractical just was not an option. And so Meg was cheerfully prepared to wear last year's party frock, when Grandmamma Irving sent a beautiful white, filmy dress in the mail, along with a little note stating that no girl should graduate without a white dress.

Samantha's grandmother had also provided one for her, and Rose surely could have had one herself, but for the fact that Connie was making do with an old dress. Rose couldn't leave her to be the odd one out of their quartet, so she was wearing a dress of palest pink.

"Are you nervous, Meg?" Samantha asked.

Meg didn't turn from the mirror. "No," she said dreamily. "I'm asking myself if I _really_ can be Joanna Margaret Blythe … if this girl I'm seeing is really me. Somehow … I can't quite believe it."

The girl in the mirror looked faintly bemused at the notion, too. Dark chestnut waves softly framed a dryad's face … merry brook-brown eyes; clear brown skin; a sweet, full mouth made for laughter; a pointed chin and high cheekbones; a delicately tip-tilted nose; and over all an air of other-worldliness.

"Can I truly be Meggie of Green Gables?" Meg wondered.

Samantha left her vanity table to stand next to her. The two made quite a contrast, with Sammy's chocolate-box prettiness.

"You're not Meggie of Green Gables anymore, you goose," she said in a surprising burst of affection. "You're Meg Blythe, soon-to-be graduate of the Conservatory of Music, and one of tonight's star performers."

Meg laughed, and suddenly the vision in the mirror was _her_ again. "Oh Sammy, why did you mention that?" she asked. "Now I _am_ nervous!"

The door burst open and Connie and Rose spilled into the room, both giggling anxiously.

"Oh no, what have you done now, Rose?" Samantha asked.

Rose tried to compose her features. "Nothing! Except … you know … I thought it would be a shame to leave these dear old halls without some remembrance of me."

"I should think they'd be desperate to forget you as quickly as possible," Samantha said.

Rose's indignation—and her tale of whatever it was she had done—were lost as a delivery boy knocked on the open door. A chorus of "oohs" broke from all four throats at the great sheaf of pink roses he bore.

"Is there a Miss Meg Blythe here?" the boy asked.

Meg smiled in delight. "They must be from Papa," she said, moving forward to cradle them in her arms. She pulled out the attached card and read:

_Dear Meg,_

_I wrote to Uncle Kip and commissioned him to get these to you. Know that I am thinking of you today. Congratulations on all your accomplishments, and may all your dreams come true._

_Will._

"Oh!" Meg breathed, a lump in her throat. She wasn't the least bit disappointed that they hadn't come from Shirley—she was only touched and delighted that Will had thought of her. She buried her nose in their velvety sweetness.

"Well," Rose said, having pounced on the card. "I wish Geoff had been so thoughtful!"

"Here," Samantha offered. "Let me put a couple of them in your hair, and you can carry the rest. They _are_ beautiful, aren't they?"

Finishing with their final preparations, the four girls linked arms and stood in front of the mirror much as Meg had earlier. From strong, sturdy Connie with her vivid Celtic coloring, to Samantha's artificial perfection, to Wild Rose's delicate features belying her adventurous spirit, to Meg's tall, slim, quiet charm, they made an attractive picture of young womanhood.

"Well girls," Rose said finally, sniffing a bit. "This is it. The last time we will ever stand together as schoolgirls. It's been a grand four years, hasn't it?"

Meg thought back over the past four years … the struggle to like Samantha, now one of her dear friends. The ill-fated romance with Hawk. The friendship with Rose, bringing joy and mischief into her quiet life. The friendship with Will. Learning to live apart from both Shirley and Matt. Peter's capture and escape, and the friendship with Jocelyn that developed thereof. The development of her voice, and the surprising satisfaction she received from expanding her education.

Above all, the war, shaping and hovering over everything.

With all the trials and heartbreak, though, Meg wouldn't have traded the last four years for the most peaceful, quiet existence on a farm in Avonlea. She had _grown_ these years … and she wouldn't go back to her old self if she could.

* * *

Not only Shirley and Matt, but Paul and Rachel Irving, and Anne and Gilbert Blythe came to watch Meg graduate. As they sat in the audience and listened to her pure voice soar into the rafters for her solo performance, none of them could quite believe this was their little Meggie.

None of them, that is, except for Matt. He beamed with pride over his sister, and forced all thoughts of enlistment far away for the moment. When she crossed the stage to collect her diploma, his chest swelled with pride as though it was his own accomplishment.

"She's really something, isn't she, Pop?" he whispered to their father.

Shirley nodded. He had been thinking of his beloved Cecily all day, and how proud she would have been of their little girl. Their little Meg, such a combination of them both, and with something else that was all her own.

"Yes, she really is," he told Matt.

Anne and Gilbert were holding hands and remembering their graduation from Redmond … how cold their relationship had been then, and how very far they had come now. With heartbreak happening on every side in their family, it was a relief to be able to celebrate something as simple and innocent as a young girl's graduation.

Paul Irving was composing a poem in honor of his only granddaughter, and Rachel thought proudly that their Cecily might have stood in this very place, had her health permitted.

Other eyes, too, were on Meg Blythe. Christopher Ashton, from his seat among the faculty, prayed earnestly that his Will might come home safely, perhaps to the reward of this young girl's heart. Graham "Hawk" Giraud, on the other hand, wished desperately that he hadn't thrown away his chance with her, and wondered if it truly was too late.

Meg herself, however, only had eyes for two. As she accepted her diploma, she turned and scanned the audience, her eyes coming to rest on two faces, side-by-side, looking almost like brothers. She beamed at her brother and father.

She had done it.


	36. Matt's Promise

Home! Green Gables had never looked so sweet as it did now, when Meg knew she never, ever had to leave again unless she wanted to. She gleefully scattered her belongings all over her little white gable room, thinking that the way she felt right now, she never _would_ want to leave again. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do first—spend an entire day outdoors soaking in the June sunshine, whip up a batch of cherry tarts in the kitchen, run over to Tanglewood to help Polly and Auntie Di sew baby clothes, write to Will to rejoice over the good news in Africa … the possibilities seemed endless.

It was so good to know that she could actually be of use to her family again—helping Polly through her fits of depression as her pregnancy progressed, working with Shirley and Uncle Patrick around the farm (Uncle Patrick was back on his feet but still under doctor's orders to take it easy), and joy of joys, sending Missy Sloane, the hired girl who had helped out around Green Gables in her absence, home with a polite "thank you but we won't be needing your services anymore."

Meg hated letting anyone else interfere in her domain.

In all her happy planning, Meg refused to let herself think about Matt. That very day, the day after they had all returned from Toronto, he had borrowed the truck to go "up to town." She knew—they all knew—what that meant. She simply didn't want to think about it.

More than fear for Matt's life, Meg worried about what would become of her brother, with his gentle nature, in the brutality of war. She couldn't forget Prof. Ashton's harsh assessment of how the military trained its soldiers. Matt hated seeing people in pain; what would it do to him to have that vital part of his nature crushed?

"Meg, love!" Shirley called from downstairs.

"Coming, Papa!" Meg resolutely put all thought of Matt's future out of her mind. What would happen, would happen, and fretting wouldn't change it. She ran downstairs and smiled cheerfully at her father. "What is it?"

"Mail," Shirley answered, brandishing a sheaf of envelopes. "Most of it for you."

Meg took the pile and sorted through it, murmuring aloud. "One from Rose … the postmark is High Valley, so she must be spending the summer there. One from Will … a thin one from Johnny, probably just another couple of lines telling me he's all right … one from Jane … one from Peter, and one from Jocelyn."

Shirley shook his head. "You must be the most popular girl in PEI, love. I never saw anyone receive so many letter as you!"

Meg grinned as she took her stash outside to read them in the sunshine. "I've missed hearing you call me love," she said irrelevantly.

"It's not as if I never called you that during your vacations," Shirley said, following her out.

"I know … but everything sounds sweeter now that I'm home for good."

"It does that," Shirley had to agree. "Well," he said, picking up his hat and placing it back on his head, "I'm back to the fields. Enjoy your mail."

Meg waved absently at him, already deep in Rose's news of the hi-jinks happening in High Valley.

There wasn't much of especial interest in the rest of her mail: Jane had reluctantly let Bran go back to the front, but he had promised her he would return (_and Meg, while he hasn't proposed and I don't have a ring, we both understand that we are going to get married when this is all over._); Johnny was, indeed, just writing to tell her he was still alive and fighting; Will wrote cheerfully of how odd it was to move from bloody, brutal fighting to relatively peaceful guarding of prisoners of war—at least until they were all transferred somewhere else; Jocelyn wrote …

Meg yelped. Nothing of especial interest, indeed! She dropped Jocelyn's letter and snatched up Peter's. As usual when it came to imparting important information, his was short, but contained the same news. Meg stared at the letters a moment longer, then sprang to her feet and started running to Tanglewood.

Halfway there, she met Polly, whose swollen stomach made running a bit more difficult these days, and whose face was as alight as Meg had seen it since the war began.

"Did they write—have you read?" she gasped.

"Yes!" Meg shouted triumphantly. She grabbed Polly's hands and whirled her around in an impromptu dance. Laughing helplessly, Polly finally managed to extricate herself and settle to the ground.

"Mum—" she started, when Auntie Di herself came flying down the path. She grabbed Meg, much as Meg had grabbed Polly, and they danced some more.

"Oh, such good, good news!" Auntie Di sang. "I've sent Sel to the fields for the men and boys. I can't wait until dinner to tell them! I feel like I could shout it from the rooftops—oh girls, there _is_ still joy left in the world!"

Linking arms, the three walked back to Tanglewood, where Avery was awaiting them on the porch, and where very shortly Uncle Patrick, Shirley, Roger, and Daniel returned, following Sel.

"Is everything all right?" Uncle Patrick called anxiously as soon as they were within earshot. "Sel just said we had to come to the house at once, so here we are. What's wrong?"

Auntie Di flew into his arms. "Nothing wrong," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. "A letter from Peter—and one from Jocelyn—oh Polly, read them!"

"Meg should read them, Mum," Polly protested, handing the sheets of paper over to her cousin. "She's the one with a trained voice."

"I'm not going to sing them," Meg said.

"_Somebody_ read something, or we'll all burst!" Shirley warned.

And so Meg held Peter's out first and began to read.

"_Dear Mum, Dad, Polly, and all the other random youngsters. I thought you would want to know that Polly is no longer the only married woman in the family. As of this morning, the last day before I head back to the front, Jocelyn is now Jocelyn Amelia Samuels, not Reed. I can't think why, but she agreed to become my wife. We were going to wait until after the war so we could have a big family wedding, but after recent events, we decided it was foolish to wait._

_"Love to you all,_

_"Peter._"

Into the stunned silence, Meg set Peter's letter aside and read Jocelyn's.

_"To my new family,_

_"Please forgive us for springing our wedding on you without a word. Peter asked me to marry him this past winter, but circumstances were such that we didn't feel it right to announce it just then. We thought we would have plenty of time, but then the order came for Peter's unit to go back to the front, and we both agreed that we shouldn't wait to get married. From the order to our decision to the marriage itself, there was very little time—certainly not enough to write to anyone. So here we are—here I am—proud to call myself your daughter and sister. I hope you will excuse the manner in which our marriage happened, and rejoice with us. Soon, we hope, we will be able to rejoice with you in person._

_"With all my love,_

_"Jocelyn Reed Samuels."_

"Well," Shirley said laconically. "Good news indeed. You aren't upset with them, are you, Di?"

"Upset?" Auntie Di lifted her head from Uncle Patrick's shoulder and swatted her brother. "Don't you know me at all, Shirley?"

He grinned.

"You know what the best part of this is for me, Meg?" Polly whispered. "Of course I'm happy for Peter and Jocelyn—but this means that finally people will stop talking about Elliot and me and start talking about them!"

And though Meg couldn't agree that was the _best_ part, she could understand Polly's relief.

The men didn't go back to the fields; instead, they all sat on the porch and discussed the news. Meg darted back to Green Gables for her letters from the newlyweds, and they compared reports. To Meg, Jocelyn had been a bit more forthright in both why they had waited to announce their engagement, and why they had gotten married so suddenly.

Both were because of Polly. When she was still reeling from Pierre's death, and the family reeling from her unexpected union with Elliot Douglas, they hadn't felt right about intruding with their joyful news. Then, when they found out Peter was going back into the thick of things, they didn't want what happened to Polly and Pierre to happen to them.

_I told Peter that if he died, I at least wanted the comfort of sharing his name,_ Jocelyn wrote.

Meg hesitated about sharing that with the rest, but Polly had already guessed that was the reason, and expressed her scorn.

"How foolish of them to not want to tell us!" she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears but her face composed. "If anything good could come out of—what happened with me—then of course I'm going to be glad for it! Nothing will ever make up for losing Pierre—but at least this shows that something good can come of it, after all."

They were all still talking as the sky darkened to twilight and a uniformed young man with a fresh haircut walked down the path from Green Gables.

"What gives?" he called cheerfully as he neared the house. "Home is dark and abandoned, and you all are here chattering like crows! What have I missed?"

Their eyes turned to him, and they all fell silent. Meg bit her lip hard to keep her eyes from overflowing. She had expected no less—but that didn't make this moment any easier.

"Oh, Matt," she whispered.

* * *

It wasn't, in the end, as bad as it might have been. Matt was in the RCAF, naturally ("No boats for me, thank you very much, and the old leg would never hold up as infantry"), but as a noncombatant!

He was a mechanic, instead.

"I went in to the recruiters office," he said, stretching out his long legs in Auntie Di's porch chair, "And I told him that I was ready to do my bit for the Allies, but I did not want anything involving killing. He thought I was crazy at first, but after we talked for a bit he came around to my point of view.

"So I signed up as a mechanic—I'll start off stationed at one of the air bases in England, but who knows where I'll end up. They're desperate for mechanics—they can't keep the pilots in the air because of all the problems they have with the planes." He grinned proudly. "So, instead of killing, I get to help keep our people alive. Not a bad compromise, wouldn't you say?"

Meg overflowed with relief. Matt would still be in danger—but he would still be able to be _Matt._

Shirley cleared his throat and patted his son's shoulder. "Proud of you, my boy," he said quietly.

Matt coughed and changed the subject. "What _were_ you all discussing when I came up, anyway?"

Polly and Auntie Di both started to explain at once, and in the resulting hubbub, Matt's decision was almost forgotten. On the walk back to Green Gables after supper, though, Meg brought it up again.

The twins were loitering a little behind Shirley, walking hand-in-hand like the children they had been, enjoying the beauty of the June night.

"When do you go?" Meg finally asked simply.

"Two days," Matt said.

"So soon?"

"Like I said, they're desperate."

Meg held back a sigh. "Write to me?"

"Of course. I'll count on you to keep me updated on all the home news … Polly's baby, what's happening with the farm, how Johnny does, all of that."

They were quiet for a few moments. Then Matt said,

"I was thinking today about the day we all went to Echo Lodge for the first time. Remember that? You and Peter found it first, and then we all went there and made it our own, because Papa said it belonged to Grandfather and it wouldn't be a problem for us to fix it up."

"Those were such good days." Meg smiled.

"I've been thinking—when Peter and Jocelyn come back here, they might want a place of their own. We should ask Grandfather if he would sell it to them."

"That's a wonderful idea!" Meg cried. "I thought they would live in England, though."

Matt shrugged. "Maybe they will … but I have a feeling they might want to live here, where the war hasn't touched."

"You're probably right," Meg said. "You usually are."

Matt smiled. "Meg—make sure to give Polly's little one lots of extra love. I know we all love babies in this family, but this one is coming from a loveless marriage, and it will need all the help it can get."

"I will," Meg promised.

"And keep an eye on both Pop and Uncle Patrick. Neither likes to admit they ever need help, and neither is getting any younger. Especially Uncle Patrick."

"Any other instructions?" Meg asked lightly. "Anything for me specifically?"

"Nope," Matt said. "You'll figure your own life out. You don't need my help."

Meg rubbed her face against the shoulder of his uniform. "But I'll always need you."

He rested his cheek atop her smooth head. "Don't worry," he said a little huskily. "You'll always have me."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

And somehow, Meg was comforted by that promise. Matt was the most trustworthy soul alive—if he said something, he would do it.

He'd come home, because he promised.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_Matt's story is a special tribute to my grandfather, who was called up four times, and rejected three times because he was partially blind in one eye. He finally told them that he'd had enough, and they had darn well better find something for him to do. So they marked him "noncombatant" and he became an Air Force mechanic. It wasn't just the soldiers who won the war, it was the personnel as well, and all too often they get neglected in tributes to WWII vets! So, to all the mechanics, drivers, office workers, and the like:

Thank You.


	37. The First GreatGrandchild

That summer was a season of hope. Not only had the Allies taken North Africa, they were gaining great ground in Italy. Some optimists claimed that the war would be won by winter, but not even when Mussolini was arrested did the senior Blythes give in to such predictions.

"Too many times during the last war did we hear the claim that 'it will all be over by next season,'" Auntie Di said grimly. "My heart broke too many times when that was proved false to risk it again now."

Even they couldn't help but have their spirits uplifted by the string of victories, though, however cautiously. After so long feeling like the Axis powers were invincible, any victory was cause for hope.

War news took second place to personal matters in late July. One morning Meg was awakened before dawn by the telephone. She flew down the stairs and narrowly beat Shirley to the instrument.

"Yes?" she said, snatching up the receiver.

"Meg?" Auntie Di said. "It's time—can you come watch the children for us?"

"I'll be right there," Meg promised. She hung up and darted back up the stairs for her clothes, leaving a bemused Shirley standing in the kitchen doorway.

Dressed in an old pair of Matt's trousers, cut down and altered to fit her slender frame, and a work shirt, Meg came downstairs and out the door, pausing at the gate to come back in to where her father was still standing quietly.

"It's Polly," she explained breathlessly, and was gone.

* * *

Polly's labor was long and hard. Dr. Martin, when he came, pulled Auntie Di into the hall after his initial examination.

"If there was a hospital any closer than sixty miles away I'd say we needed to send her there," he said. "I'll do my best, but … prepare yourself for the worst."

Auntie Di couldn't answer, but Uncle Patrick, who was waiting nervously nearby, grabbed Doc Martin's shirt and pulled his face close. The doctor was old, crusty, and irritable, and Uncle Patrick was a short, pleasant, mild-mannered man, but just then he would have faced down Hitler himself without flinching.

"Do _not_ say that," he growled. "You _will_ get my little girl through this, and her baby _will_ be born safely. Do you understand?"

And Doc Martin nodded without a word and went back into Polly's room without even straightening his collar.

Miranda took herself off to Annabelle Andrews' house as soon as she finished eating the breakfast Meg prepared. She said that her memories of _her_ labor were far too fresh to stay in the same house as someone else enduring that—though she was _quite_ sure Polly couldn't be in as much pain as she had been, but then, Polly was overly-dramatic, and she would just take herself and the baby off to her dear friend Annabelle's until it was all over.

Even good-natured Meg couldn't resist making a face at Miranda's retreating back before turning to give Roger a second helping of pancakes with maple syrup. The children didn't quite understand what was happening, but they knew enough to be glad of Meg's presence as the day progressed. Daniel and Roger, after figuring out that Uncle Patrick would not be leaving the house that day, took themselves off to the fields to join Shirley. Avery and Sel stayed close, though, and Meg thrilled to cuddle up with them on a blanket on the lawn and read them stories.

She'd never been especially fond of children—not that she _disliked_ them, but she had a hard time remembering that she wasn't a child herself, still. Now, though, with the cousin only two years older upstairs giving birth to her very own baby, Meg realized fully that she was, indeed, a woman. That thought somehow made the two little bodies snuggling close to hers even sweeter.

Would she, too, marry someday and have children? Would she one day read stories to two bright faces of her own?

Meg could picture children quite easily—but not a husband. That thought was almost laughable!

As the day progressed and the little ones fell asleep, with their tousled heads in her lap, Meg allowed herself to dream about those possible-future children. There was a little girl with her own brown eyes, tugging on her hand and calling her "Mama." The hair was darker than Meg would have thought, though—a brown so deep it was almost black, a shade nobody in her family had. The little girl's skin, too, was fairer than Meg's own, so pale under that dark hair that it was almost white. The sweet smile was all Meg's though.

Toddling after her came a little boy with similar coloring—dark hair, brown eyes, and clear skin. Following them, a chubby little girl who kept tripping over her own feet, with riotous light curls and dancing blue eyes. Meg frowned—where had she seen eyes like that before? The memory teased—danced at the back of her mind—retreated again, laughing at her.

Before she could fully grasp it, Uncle Patrick came outside, looking old and sick, his face grey and haggard.

Meg sprang up, waking Avery and Sel. She ignored their sleepy wails. "Is she—?"

"She's asking for you," Uncle Patrick said. "Go to her—I'll watch the little ones. She's terribly tormented in her mind, Meg—keeps saying this is her curse. Comfort her if you can—God knows her mother and I have tried without success. Doc Martin says we'll lose both of them if she doesn't start fighting."

Meg bit her lip and ran inside, up the stairs. She knew, better than Uncle Patrick, why Polly thought she was cursed. And it was up to her, Meg, to change her mind—dear God, what a responsibility! Meg prayed as she had never prayed before.

Polly was lying on the bed, her beautiful bronze hair tangled around her white face in sweat-darkened strands, her green eyes enormous over black hollows beneath her lids. Auntie Di was holding her hand, and Doc Martin was standing nearby with a terrible frown on his face.

"I'm here, dear," Meg said softly, slipping through the door.

Polly turned her head listlessly. "Go away," she said to Auntie Di and the doctor. "I need to talk to Meg alone."

"I'm not leaving you alone with this child," Doc Martin began, but Auntie Di pierced him with her gaze.

"We will do as my daughter asks," she said. "If it helps her."

Sputtering about uppity women, Doc Martin followed Auntie Di out of the room.

"Make sure the door is shut," Polly ordered.

Meg checked, and latched it right under the doctor's indignant nose.

"We're alone now, dearest," she said, crossing the room and taking the hand Auntie Di had held.

Polly squeezed it, her back arching and a low moan escaping her lips as another contraction built. Meg had never seen a woman in labor before. She was terrified, but could do nothing but let Polly clutch her hand in desperation and wait it out.

"Oh Meg," Polly panted as the contraction passed. "I can't do this—the doctor says the baby is too big and I'm too small and I don't have enough strength, and oh Meg, I know God is punishing me for—for what I did with Elliot, Meg, He's going to kill me and take my baby too because I was so wicked, and oh Meg, I'm not ready to die! I thought I wanted to, after Pierre died, but I want to live—I want my baby to live!"

She broke off as another contraction hit, squeezing Meg's hand so tightly Meg thought her bones might break under the pressure.

"I hated this baby at first," she resumed, gasping. "I hated it for being Elliot's and not Pierre's, but then I felt it kick and I watched my stomach grow and somewhere along the line I began to love it and take interest in life again and think maybe Elliot and I could have a life together after all, but now I'm going to die and Meg, I don't want to go to hell!"

Her voice had risen to a panicked scream, and Meg was forced into an unaccustomed boldness.

"Stop it!" she said, her clear voice cutting across Polly's wail. "You are not going to die, Polly Samuels Douglas, not unless you give up. God doesn't hate you, and He does not hate your baby. The only person who hates you is _you_."

She was forced to pause for another contraction, but Polly seemed shocked into added strength, so Meg continued as soon as she could. She didn't know where the words came from, but they poured from her mouth with such ease she knew they were truth.

"You think that you deserve to be punished—not for what you did with Elliot, but for living when Pierre did not, and for moving ahead with life, and you have tricked yourself into thinking that God is punishing you. He is doing nothing of the sort—and so _live_, Polly Douglas! If you want to live, if you want your baby to live, _fight_! Don't blame this on God; the only curse is in your own mind. Think, Polly, think of all those who love you. You are not wicked, and you don't deserve death, and this helpless little baby certainly deserves a chance at life. For your baby's sake—for your mother and father, for Peter and Bran, for me, and all of us who love you, for Elliot and yes! Even for Pierre, who would surely want you to live—_fight_, Polly!"

Polly started screaming again on the last words, but her tone was different this time, and Meg sensed a change. She wanted to run for the doctor, but Polly wouldn't release her hand.

Thankfully, Doc Martin hadn't gone far, and at Polly's screams he burst through the door again with Auntie Di on his heels.

"By God, the girl has done it!" he exclaimed. "She's pushing!" He let out a flurry of directions to Auntie Di, who made a most efficient nurse, and while Meg clutched Polly's hand and encouraged her now, telling her how brave she was and how proud they all were of her, the doctor reached out his surprisingly gentle hands to help Polly through this last phase.

Meg didn't know how long they were there, Polly pushing and pushing with all she had, but finally, with one last ear-shattering scream, she pushed the baby into the doctor's hands. She burst into tears and collapsed back onto the pillow.

"It's a boy!" Doc Martin announced jubilantly, and a moment later the little fellow announced his own presence with a healthy set of lungs.

"He's alive," Polly gasped.

"Of course he is!" Meg laughed, a little giddy from what had just happened. "And so are you—Polly, you're a marvel!"

The doctor cut the cord and passed the baby boy to Auntie Di, who set about cleaning him up before handing him to Polly.

The moment Polly took him in her arms, Meg saw her face light up with a glow that none of them had seen since before the war. Polly, their darling, spoiled, slightly weak Polly, had gone through her baptism of fire and emerged a woman, strong and true.

Meg stepped back from the bed to give Polly some privacy with her son. Auntie Di put an arm around her shoulders.

"Thank you, darling," she whispered. "We wouldn't have made it without you."

Meg looked into her face and saw the lines of pain around her eyes, and didn't know what to say.

"Oh!" Auntie Di said a second later. _"Patrick."_

She released Meg and ran downstairs.

"What are you going to name him, Mrs. Douglas?" Doc Martin asked, finally standing up and washing his hands.

"I don't know," Polly said, raising her face from its awed inspection of the baby boy. "I thought—if it was a girl, I wanted to name her for _you_," nodding at Meg. "And at first I thought I would name him Pierre, if he was a boy, but now I don't want him to start life with anyone's legacy on his shoulders. He needs his own name." She looked at Meg. "Meg—you gave birth to him as much as I did. Neither of us would be here without you. Please—you name him."

"Oh Polly, I couldn't," Meg protested. "All I did was—scold you!"

"Scold, was it?" Doc Martin said. "All I know, Miss Blythe, is that all my medical knowledge wasn't moving things along for hours before you came along. You came in here and within ten minutes she started pushing. She's right—you saved their lives more than I did."

Meg was silenced. She moved back to the bed and looked down at that red, scrunched-up face. The first thing she noticed about him was that his ears stuck out, just like Will's. She bit her lip to hold back a laugh.

"A name all his own?" she asked softly.

Polly traced a loving hand down the side of his face. "One no one in the clan has had before."

Meg, perhaps because of Will, thought of the Bible, and what names would be fitting from that rich Book.

"David," she said suddenly. "Doesn't that mean 'beloved'?"

"You'd have to ask Rev. Craig about that, Miss Blythe," said Doc Martin.

"It does," said Uncle Patrick from the door.

"David," smiled Polly. "I like it." She raised her eyes to her father's. "Come in—Mum, Dad—and meet your grandson: David Samuels Douglas."

"And may God bless them both," Doc Martin said softly as he slipped out of the room without anyone noticing.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** OK, I know technically there has been a David in the family before, if you count Davy Keith. I really wanted to use the name because of its meaning, however, so I am ignoring Davy and Dora. After all, they aren't really part of the "clan" meaning Anne and Gilbert and their children._

_And I'm sorry if there are any pregnant women reading this--don't worry, I'm sure your labor will NOT be like Polly's.  
_


	38. Drifting

Matt was involved in the fighting in the Pacific. He wrote Meg that it wasn't as bad as he had expected—the scenery was beautiful and the airmen—even the Yankees—weren't bad.

_If only, _he wrote, _they didn't keep messing up MY planes. No sooner do I get one absolutely pristine then those d—d idiots take it up and bring it back ruined, plain ruined. I swear, it's a conspiracy._

Meg laughed. She was so glad to see that her brother hadn't changed—maybe he was a little tougher, his language a little—er—riper, but he was still Matt.

Such small things helped to brighten her days; this, her first autumn back in Avonlea, was not as wonderful as she had hoped. She missed the merry camaraderie with the girls; Polly was so busy with little Davie that she had hardly any time for her cousin. Meg had never really gotten close to any of the Avonlea girls her age, so with her brother gone and her cousin entered into a new realm, she found herself lonely more often than not.

More than just the fellowship, though, Meg missed her sense of purpose. At school, she had goals, even if they were as simple as passing her classes. Here in Avonlea, she felt aimless, like she was just drifting along.

"Come to our Red Cross meeting this afternoon," Auntie Di invited her one morning in late September, when the maple trees waved scarlet flags of victory. "It will do you good to get involved."

"Isn't it all older people, though?" Meg asked doubtfully.

Auntie Di shook her silver-threaded red hair. "We talked about having a Senior and a Junior Red Cross, but in the end decided it would be better to mix the two. It does us old folks good to see the youth working for our country, and hopefully we set a good example for the younger ones—though if I'm perfectly honest, I think the only example we _really_ set is that of gossip."

Meg laughed. "I will admit, I've missed the Avonlea gossip since going to school. All right, Auntie, I'll join."

Accordingly, that afternoon Meg found herself sitting in between Polly on the left and Emma Gillis on the right, listening with avid ears to the chatter filling the room as the women gathered around three quilting frames.

"Annabelle Andrews thought we should stick to knitting socks and scarves," Emma confided to Meg, "but your aunt and Mrs. Rev. Craig voted her down, saying that the British children left homeless would appreciate warm quilts as much as soldiers could use socks, and that we ought to care about the … the …" She paused, searching her memory.

"The flotsam and jetsam of the war," Polly supplied in her soft voice.

"Yes, that's it," Emma said in relief. "And last week we had a big canning party, and whatever was left out of what we thought our households would use this year your aunt took and sent to that _Earl's daughter_ she knows in England for the children. Oh, Polly, I keep forgetting to ask, is it true that Peter is going to have a title now that he married a noblewoman?"

"No," Polly replied with such patience that Meg suspected she had answered this question many times before. "That's not how the nobility works, and anyway, Jocelyn's not noble."

"But I thought I heard someone say she was a Squire's granddaughter," Emma said.

"Squire isn't actually a title," Meg explained. "More a position, like a mayor, only it's not official anymore, just a holdover from long ago."

"Oh." And Emma sighed in disappointment. Meg and Polly exchanged amused glances.

"Polly dear, have your husband's parents met little David yet?" Mrs. Rev. Craig asked from across the room.

Polly hid a grimace. "Yes, they came up last week."

Mrs. Douglas had wanted to bring Polly and Davie back with her—said it "wasn't fair" that Di got them, while she was left all alone with only _Una_ to keep her company. This was stated right in front of poor Una Douglas's face, which wilted even more than usual at her mother's blatant disregard. Polly stood firm in refusing to leave Tanglewood, saying that Elliot wanted her at her childhood home until he came back and could provide a house for them.

Mrs. Douglas sniffed suspiciously at that, and said it didn't _sound_ much like Elliot, but when Auntie Di reminded her that Elliot and Polly would most likely live in the Glen after the war, and Mary would be able to see them every day, and this was the last chance she and Patrick would have to have their little girl at home, Mrs. Douglas yielded.

Mr. Douglas had wisely stayed out on the porch with the other two men for the entire visit.

"And what about your grandparents, dear, are Dr. and Mrs. Blythe coming soon?" asked sweet Mrs. Wright. "I know Mother would love to see Mrs. Blythe again."

"Mother and Father will be spending Thanksgiving with us," Auntie Di answered. "And Jessie, you can tell Aunt Diana that Mother will want to spend at least one day with her."

Mrs. Andrews sniffed. "Don't you sometimes feel it is a form of _lying_, Mrs. Samuels, to call someone an aunt when she isn't? Or at least _pretentious_?"

"Not in the least, Annabelle," Auntie Di answered calmly, snipping off her thread and patting the quilt section she had just completed. "I would hate to restrict my circle of family to those only related to me by blood or law. Family is about sharing hearts, you know, not names."

"You always were romantic, Di," old Mrs. Sloane said with a tolerant smile.

"I think it's a very sensible way of doing things," Mrs. Rev. Craig said. She changed the subject briskly. "Now, ladies, we really ought to discuss what we are going to do at the concert. I know it isn't until November, but we need to start planning now."

"What concert is this?" Meg asked.

"We want to host a concert to raise money for the war effort," Mrs. Rev. Craig explained. "And we thought it would be a nice touch to do it on Armistice Day, you know, as a reminder of our victory in the last war."

"Not much of a victory," grumbled old Mrs. Sloane, who had lost three of her four sons in the last war. "If we'd truly been victorious over those Huns we wouldn't be fighting this war now, would we? I always said a truce was a bad idea—you can't trust those filthy—"

"Several of our young ladies have volunteered to speak patriotic pieces," Mrs. Rev. Craig said loudly, overriding old Mrs. Sloane with the ease born of long practice. "And we have some musical talent. The two little Donnell girls are going to perform a tap dance, and, well, I'm afraid that's all we have organized thus far. Except refreshments, of course. I'm in charge of organizing them, and in fact, I already have a list made out for each of you with what you can bring."

Several ladies exchanged smiles around the circle. Mrs. Rev. Craig was noted for her fondness for food—both cooking it and eating it.

"My Diana has offered to come over from Carmody to give a violin solo," Jessie Wright said.

"Goodness, with two small children underfoot and a husband away at the front, how does she have time to keep up with her music?" Emma Gillis asked breathlessly. "I've neglected my piano terribly since I stopped taking lessons from Mr. Samuels, and I'm not even married!"

"Speaking of Patrick," Auntie Di said, ignoring Emma's plaintive query, "Meg, I was wondering if you would be willing to sing with your uncle playing accompaniment?"

"Of course," Meg said readily. She smiled. "It's been a long time since Uncle Patrick and I have worked on music together."

"I'm _surprised_ you are willing to _lower_ yourself to something as simple as a Red Cross concert, after all those _posh_ affairs in Toronto," Mrs. Andrews said with a slight sneer.

Meg remembered something Matt had once said about Mrs. Andrews, that she "belonged in a Victorian novel, with all her italics." She gave her sweetest, most innocent smile. "What posh affairs are those, ma'am? I only ever performed at school, but if you all are willing to bear with me, I would be proud and happy to do my duty by my country."

Polly stifled a giggle at Mrs. Andrew's face. "Well done, Meg," she whispered. "That took the wind right out of her sails!"

* * *

Joining the Red Cross and preparing for what was soon dubbed the Armistice Concert helped fill Meg's days somewhat, but she still felt restless. Even seeing Grandmother and Granddad at Thanksgiving didn't help. Grandmother did offer for Meg to come stay with them for a few weeks, but she turned down the offer.

"Not that I wouldn't love to spend time with you all," she assured Grandmother. "And I do miss all the Glen aunts, and Little Gabe probably doesn't even remember me after all this time, but I can't keep traipsing all over the place to find contentment. If I can't find it within myself, I don't think I'll find it anywhere, do you?"

And Grandmother, remembering her younger days, agreed that no, it didn't seem likely.

Letters from Rose and Sammy, enjoying life in Boston after their High Valley summer, and from Connie, at university in Toronto, didn't help matters any. They all seemed to be able to move ahead with their lives—why was she the only one drifting along?

Meg couldn't even talk to Polly, the one person she thought might have understood, about it. Davie took up all Polly's attention these days. Which was as it should be, Meg conceded, thankful that Matt's fear for a child born of a loveless marriage proved false in this case. Still, she missed talking to her cousin.

Though, if she thought about it, Polly usually did most of the talking, and Meg the listening. In fact, that was how it was with most of her friends, except …

* * *

_Dear Will,_

_Have you ever felt like you are trying to hear God's voice, but it is drowned out by a million other voices all clamoring for your attention? That's somewhat how I feel these days. I'm sure God has a purpose for my life—I just can't find it, because life itself drowns Him out. Or maybe the problem is with my ears; maybe I've forgotten how to listen to God in the last few years. _

_It's not fair of me to burden you with my petty problems, especially when you are doing such a great and terrible work over there. I sometimes think if I could join up it would help—give me a purpose, at least. _You_ don't have to worry about what you're supposed to be doing. You know what your purpose is: to stop Hitler from poisoning the rest of the world. Oh, I know that that's what we all are doing, but actively fighting evil seems so much simpler and more meaningful than singing in a local concert, or washing dishes, or sitting at my desk writing letters. Is that _really_ all God wants from me? Shouldn't there be more?_

_Again, I'm sorry to write to you like this. I could write to Matt, but he sees things in such simple terms that he doesn't always understand hard-to-express emotions. Peter is so full of joy at his marriage to Jocelyn that I don't like to bother him. So I'm afraid that you're the only one left!_

_That sounds insulting, but really, I mean it well—as in I feel terrible complaining about my issues to you._

_I do hope you are doing well, or as well as one can be over there. Are you allowed to say where your next assignment will be? I confess I hope you can remain in North Africa for a little while longer, at least. It may not be very safe, but it's safer than most of Europe right now!_

_Your friend,_

_Meg.

* * *

_

_Dear Meg,_

_Let's get one thing straight right away: don't ever apologize for "burdening" me with your problems. We're friends, aren't we? And isn't that what friends are for, to bear each other's burdens? How could I ever feel comfortable coming to you with my issues if you couldn't—or wouldn't—do the same to me?_

_And another thing. Your problems aren't petty. Petty problems are "oh, I want to go to the dance with the handsome soldier but my yellow frock is old and the blue makes me look peaky, what shall I do?" _That_ is petty._

_Now that I'm done scolding, I'm going to completely ignore almost everything you said and focus in on one point. You said that I, and the other soldiers, am "actively fighting evil." Meg, don't you know that what we're doing isn't _fighting_ evil? We're trying to hold it back. It's you—you and everyone else weeding a Victory Garden and washing dishes and _living_ that is actively fighting evil. The only way to defeat evil is with good. You can't defeat it by killing its soldiers. "Fighting the good fight" means clinging to what is good, holding to that in the face of all storms and trials._

_So I guess, in a roundabout way, I am addressing your other problems. There's a purpose for you, Meg—to do good. even on a small scale, because every drop counts against this ocean of wickedness._

_I hope I'm not preaching too much here. Just tear up this letter if I am, and go write to your brother, who can give you practical advice like build a bridge or something._

_Your comrade in arms,_

_Will._

Meg folded up his letter contemplatively. "I wonder," she mused, "what the censors made of _that_ letter."


	39. Crimson Roses

"Are you nervous, Meg?" Polly asked, circling her cousin with a critical eye.

"No more so than I ought to be," Meg answered, fussing with a wayward curl. "Just enough to give me the energy I need."

"I could never perform in front of people," Polly sighed. "I would just die."

Meg smiled fondly at her pretty cousin. "I don't know that I could ever give birth, so you beat me there."

"You'll think differently when you get married!" Polly laughed.

"_If_ I ever get married," Meg corrected.

Polly blew a kiss at little Davie cooing on Meg's white bedspread. "Of course you will! What will you do if you don't get married? Stay here for the rest of your life?"

"There are worse places I could be," Meg said, gazing out her window at the barren fields and leaden sky, seeing beauty in its very bleakness.

Polly followed her gaze and sighed. "November is such an ugly month."

"No month is ugly if you have eyes to see its beauty," Meg said softly.

"I only have eyes for my baby boy's beauty," Polly laughed. "Although I must say that you look lovely tonight, Meg!"

"Thank you," Meg said. She was wearing her white graduation dress with crimson ribbons added for a touch of color, and she'd secured her hair back from her face with a ribbon used as an Alice band.

"All you need are some red roses to complete your look," Polly said.

"Red roses in November?" Meg laughed. "Where would anyone in Avonlea get them?"

"If you were still seeing Hawk, I'm sure he would send you roses from Montreal."

"If I was still seeing Hawk, I would likely _be_ in Montreal," Meg responded spiritedly.

"Meg!" Shirley called up the stairs. "Delivery for you!"

"Maybe it's roses from Hawk!" Polly giggled, snatching up Davie and hurrying down after Meg.

To Meg's surprise, her father's arms _were_ full of red roses: deep, velvety things, filling the hall with their spicy scent.

"Oh, Papa!" she cried.

"Don't blame me," Shirley said. "I only wish I had the ability to shower roses on you, in season and out. Here's the card that came with them."

Meg accepted the roses piled into her arms and took the card in her fingertips. Aware of the curiosity in both Shirley's and Polly's eyes, she read it aloud.

"Dear Meg, please accept these roses as my contribution to your Armistice Concert. I only wish I could be there in person. I'll be thinking of you, Will." She looked up with shining eyes. "Isn't that just like him! First my graduation, and now the concert. He must have gotten Prof. Ashton to send them from Toronto." She buried her nose in the scarlet petals. "I'll just wear a few and save the rest." She ran out to the kitchen to fill a crystal vase with water.

Polly looked speculatively at Shirley. "Uncle Shirley," she asked slowly. "Are Meg and Will in love?"

Shirley shrugged. "If they are, neither one has informed me of it." He smiled. "I doubt it on Meg's end, though; I don't think she'd keep something that important to herself. Why?" looking at Polly's frowning face. "Would it be so bad if they were?"

"Will's nice enough, I suppose," Polly said. "But he's so … ordinary. Hawk at least was exciting."

"In case you haven't noticed, my dear, we Green Gables folks are the ordinary branch of Blythes. Will fits right in with us … but as I said, I don't think you need fret. Meg's heart, so far as I am aware, is completely free."

"Not completely, Papa,' Meg said, surprising them both. She set the vase of flowers down on a side table and wound her arm around Shirley's neck. "You and Matt are still the number-one men in my life." She shook her head reprovingly at Polly, though her eyes twinkled. "And you, cousin Polly, can stop matchmaking me with Will or _anyone_. I am perfectly happy being single."

Polly bounced Davie in her arms and kissed his fuzzy brown head. "She says that now," she remarked to her son, and let the comment hang.

* * *

The Armistice Concert was a remarkable success, drawing crowds from as far away as Glen St. Mary. Some of the performers were extremely nervous about Dr. and Mrs. Blythe in the audience, who were practically legends in little Avonlea, but Meg reassured them that her grandparents were just as human as anyone else.

Diana Wright Johnson, granddaughter of Diana Barry Wright, was accepted by most as the star of the evening with her exquisite violin solos, though a small minority argued in favor of Meg Blythe. Certainly there was not a dry eye in the audience when Diana finished her rendition of _The Minstrel Boy_, nor was there one when Meg, accompanied by Patrick, entered into the fourth verse of _As Time Goes By_.

_"You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss …"_ she sang from the recently popular song, and Anne and Gilbert Blythe tightened their hands around each other and smiled at the timeless message of hope.

Neither the Wrights nor the Blythes would enter into a debate over their respective performers—they insisted _all_ the participants, not just Diana and Meg, had outdone themselves.

At the end of the concert, in an unplanned encore, Meg and Diana put their heads together hastily and came out on the stage once more. Meg in her white dress with her red roses shining in her hair and at her waist, and Diana's black hair and eyes set off by the red skirt and jacket of her neat suit, made a piquant portrait. One local artist saw them and began sketching furiously on the back of his program with the stub of a pencil. That sketch would later become the base for the portrait which would catapult him to fame and fortune, titled simply: "Love and Bravery." People would ever after debate which young woman was love and which was bravery, though the more discerning would say they were both, two sides of the same coin.

That evening, though, the two knew nothing of that. Diana placed her violin under her chin, and Meg opened her mouth, and together they performed that old, beautiful hymn, a reminder to all in Whose hand victory truly lay.

_Abide with me, fast falls the eventide_

_The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide_

_When other helpers fail and comforts flee_

_Help of the helpless, O abide with me._

By the last two verses, Rev. Craig had mounted the stage beside them, Uncle Patrick had sat down at the piano, and everyone in the crowded concert hall was singing along.

_I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless_

_Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness_

_Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?_

_I triumph still, if Thou abide with me._

_Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes_

_Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies_

_Heav'n's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee_

_In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me._

There was a pause, and then Meg repeated the last line, her voice ringing to the very rafters, unaccompanied by any instruments.

"In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."

It was later reported that even the most rabid anti-war protestor in Avonlea bought a Victory Bond after that.

* * *

Meg needed to remember that message later on that week, when her father turned from the telephone to gently tell her that Will Ashton had been shot in the arm and was hovering between life and death.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **The portrait title "love and bravery" is actually from The Minstrel Boy, which is one of the most beautiful and haunting songs I know. So much so that, though I couldn't fit the lyrics in to the story, I will reproduce them here:_

**The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone**

**In the ranks of death you will find him;**

**His father's sword he hath girded on,**

**And his wild harp slung behind him;"**

**Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,**

**"Tho' all the world betrays thee,**

**One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,**

**One faithful harp shall praise thee!" **

**The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain**

**Could not bring that proud soul under;**

**The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,**

**For he tore its chords asunder;**

**And said "No chains shall sully thee,**

**Thou soul of love and brav'ry!**

**Thy songs were made for the pure and free,**

**They shall never sound in slavery!"**


	40. Out With Sorrow, In With Joy

Will's condition continued grim through the rest of November and December. Prof. Ashton called regularly to update them, even when the update was simply "no change." Will's unit had been transferred to Italy after the North African Campaign ended, and he was one of the many soldiers going up against Hitler's Winter Line.

He had taken a bullet in the arm during a small skirmish with the Nazis, and the wound got infected. Fever set in, and for weeks his life hung in the balance.

Meg went about her daily work with set lips and anguished eyes. Polly tip-toed around her, and even Auntie Di started to speculate on just how much Will really meant to her niece. Shirley finally asked Meg one day about her feelings.

"Meg," he said, sitting down with her and taking her hands in his own. "I can't help but see how much more Will's injury has shaken you than any of the other bad news from the Front. Is he—do you—" he stumbled a bit over his words, wondering how on earth his baby girl had gotten old enough that he had to ask about such matters.

"No," Meg said. "And yes. Oh Papa, I just don't know! I'm not in love with him, if that's what you're asking, but yes, he does mean more to me—or at least, he means something _different_ to me than anyone else. Oh, I can't explain it even to myself, much less you."

Shirley smoothed his hand over her glossy head. "There, there, love," he soothed, thinking as he did that he couldn't believe he was uttering such inane words of comfort. Strange what fatherhood did to a man. "It'll all work out, you'll see. God will take care of Will."

"I know He will," Meg said, summoning up a small smile. "I'm just afraid that He'll take care of him by taking him to Heaven."

Grandmother invited Prof. Ashton to spend his winter holiday at Ingleside again, and he agreed, telling Shirley that he couldn't bear sitting in his rented rooms in Toronto just waiting for bad news day in and day out, without even classes to distract him. To Ingleside he went, and Aunt Faith telephoned Auntie Di the very next day to say that Una and "that Ashton man" had spent hours snowshoeing together, and what did they really know about him, anyway?

Auntie Di assured her that he was a very nice man, and reminded her that Una was old enough to choose her own friends.

* * *

Meg was sitting listlessly at her bedroom window on December 30, trying to work up enough energy to start taking down the Christmas decorations (it had been a bleak, depressing Christmas this year, their first without Matt), when the telephone rang downstairs. She hated to answer it—she was always afraid these days that it was going to be bad news about Will—but she knew Papa was out repairing some damaged fences, so she was the only one in the house. She dragged her feet downstairs and picked it up on the seventh ring.

"Green Gables," she said, bracing herself.

"Meg?" The deep masculine voice was only vaguely familiar.

"Yes," she replied.

"It's Uncle Jerry," he said.

_Johnny!_ "Oh no," Meg said involuntarily.

Shirley came in the kitchen door and saw her standing at the instrument with fear in her eyes. "Will?" he mouthed. She shook her head.

"It's Blythe," Uncle Jerry said. "He—he was killed in the Battle of Ortona. Gunshot wound to the chest, the letter said. They said he died instantly, without pain." His voice broke. Jerry knew, as did all veterans of the last war, that that was the standard line given to all families; nobody wanted to hear that their son died in agony, screaming in pain for hours on end. For all he knew, his eldest son—his pride and joy—could have perished facedown in the mud, bleeding his life out inch by inch, crying for his mother. He would never know.

"Oh, Uncle Jerry," Meg whispered.

Shirley, hearing his brother-in-law's name, crossed the room in two strides and took the receiver from Meg's unresisting hand. "Jerry?"

Meg didn't hear the rest of the conversation. She went to the coat closet and blindly pulled on boots, mittens, and a tam. She left her coat hanging, instead taking one of Matt's old farm jackets, finding comfort in its worn heaviness. She stumbled outside and walked out across the frozen fields, stopping just before entering the Haunted Wood.

They had survived the first years of the war so well, their family. There had been the scare with Peter, but nobody had died. Then, all within the last year or so tragedy upon tragedy: Bran's injury, Pierre's death, Will's struggle to survive, and now Blythe's death. Who would be next? Gil—or even Uncle Ken, right in the thick of things as a war correspondent? Meg knew Aunt Rilla still worried about both her husband and son every moment of the day. Uncle Bruce or Matt, both noncombatants, but still in danger? Peter or Bran, leaving Jocelyn and Jane behind? Walt, in fighting, or even Lily, still working in England as a nurse? Elliot, making Polly a war widow and leaving Davie fatherless? Or Johnny, stripping Uncle Jerry and Auntie Nan of their last son?

Too many people, too many possibilities … Meg thought her heart might burst. Blythe hadn't been her favorite cousin; she had always vaguely resented him on Johnny's behalf, knowing that his perfections made Johnny's flaws stand out more harshly. She felt guilty about that now.

No matter how she had felt about him, though, he was still—had been—her cousin, and she loved him as family.

"Oh God," she finally whispered. "Bring us some light. Please. Bring us some hope. I just can't see my way anymore."

* * *

Two days later, Shirley and Meg were at Tanglewood, spending New Year's Day with family, trying to find some comfort in each other. Auntie Di was terribly distraught for her twin; if it weren't for the children, she would have left for Ottawa as soon as they heard the news about Blythe.

In all this, they had one small piece of good news. Miranda's husband had also been in the Battle of Ortona, and was injured. They had sent him to a convalescent home in Wales, and he had telegraphed Miranda asking her and the child to join him there. Miranda, despite her complaints, didn't want to leave Tanglewood, but she couldn't think of a good reason to ignore her husband's request, so she was upstairs packing while the rest of them cuddled together before the fireplace.

When the telephone rang, they looked at each other fearfully. Meg felt her heart plummet. Not more bad news—oh, she couldn't take it. Polly reach over and grabbed her hand. Meg squeezed it gratefully as Uncle Patrick answered.

"Hello, Tanglewood. Yes, hello? I'm sorry, I can't hear … hello? _Bran?_"

Auntie Di was at her husband's side in a flash, wrenching the receiver from his hand. "Bran?" There was a pause, then, _"What?"_

Shirley chuckled. "What's that scamp up to now?"

The girls relaxed, too, and Meg felt warmth run through her veins again.

Auntie Di cupped her palm over the receiver. "Patrick, Shirley—everyone. Bran and Jane are getting married, right now, and they want us all to be a part of it!"

Polly squeaked, Meg squealed, and they all rushed for the telephone. Auntie Di held it away from her ear so they all could hear.

"Dearly beloved," they heard faintly, and so began the ceremony. Though the clergyman, whomever he was, was little more than a faint whisper over the line, both Bran and Jane sounded as though they were right in the room with them.

"I, Bran Lewis Samuels, take thee Jane …"

"I, Jane Victoria Stuart, take thee Bran …"

"… to love and to cherish …"

"… from this day forth …"

"… till death do us part."

"Therefore," said the clergyman, and Meg realized that Uncle Patrick was chanting it under his breath as well, "What God hath joined together, let no man break asunder. You may kiss the bride."

There was a long pause, until Auntie Di finally shouted into the 'phone,

"Bran! Stop kissing her and talk to us!"

Bran's familiar chuckle rolled over the line. "Sorry, Mum. Can I kiss her if I let someone else say hello?"

Before Auntie Di could ask who, a deeper voice rang into the room.

"Hello, Mum!"

"Peter!" Meg and Polly gasped in unison.

"Bran and I managed to wangle leave at the same time, and thought that with all the recent news the family could use some holiday cheer. So Bran and Jane agreed to get married now instead of after the war—"

"It didn't take much discussion," Jane interrupted.

"I'm not done kissing you yet, woman," Bran said.

"—and Joss and I agreed to be their witnesses," Peter continued serenely. "We can't talk much longer—the cost of this is exorbitant as it is—but I want to introduce you all to Joss. Darling?"

"Darling?" Polly repeated under her breath. "I can't believe Peter's calling someone darling!"

"Hello, family!" said a throaty, full voice, sounding vibrant and alive even through the poor connection.

Auntie Di was crying and couldn't speak, so Uncle Patrick took over for her. "Hello, daughter," he said warmly. "It's wonderful to hear your voice at last."

"Is Mum crying?" Bran came back on long enough to ask suspiciously.

"No," sniffed Auntie Di.

"I knew it," Bran said. "Don't cry, little Mum. We'll all be home soon, bringing our brides with us."

"We have to go," Peter said. "Love you, all of you."

"Oh—boys, and Jane, and Jocelyn—we love you too," Auntie Di said.

The next few moments were a cacophony of noise as everyone on both ends tried to get their goodbyes in. Finally they heard a "click" and the line went dead.

Auntie Di collapsed into the nearest chair, crying in earnest now. Polly patted her shoulder tentatively. "Mum? Are you all right? You aren't upset, are you?"

"It—it just doesn't seem fair," Auntie Di sniffed. "We have you and Davie here, and now both Peter and Bran are married, and my poor Nan ... Johnny's been estranged from the family for so long, and now Blythe is gone, and Dee is a flighty little thing without a serious thought in her head …"

"You could have said the same thing about me a few years ago," Polly said wryly. "Dee will grow up, and who knows? Maybe Johnny will come home to the family after all. Auntie Nan wouldn't want you to feel guilty, Mum."

"I know," Auntie Di said, wiping her eyes with Meg's handkerchief. "Goodness! I must be getting old if I can break down over something like this. We should be happy!" She scooped Avery up and plumped the little girl into her lap. "Are you happy, sugar-plum?"

"Are Peter and Bran my brothers, too, Mummy Di?" the little girl with the wide eyes asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Auntie Di said.

"Did you ever think, when you started the Shirley-Stedman Home all those years ago," Uncle Patrick mused, "that you would end up with all three of your children married?"

"I never thought half of the things that have happened would happen," Auntie Di said somewhat incoherently. "Oh Patrick, God is good after all."

Yes, Meg agreed, He was.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **To answer Ruby's question from a couple chapters ago, this was 1943, just turned to 1944. Bran and Jane married on January 1, 1944. And yes, I do plan to see out the end of the war. Hopefully it won't take too many more chapters--I'm ready to move on to Meg's third and final story!_


	41. Two Letters

The day that Meg received the news that Will was out of danger, she sat down and cried tears of joy. Even the news that they had to amputate his left arm above the elbow didn't dampen her spirits—in fact, it almost raised them, because it meant Will was coming home.

"That's a terrible thing to say!" Polly flashed when Meg said that very thing. "How can you say you're glad he lost his arm?"

Meg flushed. "Oh Polly—I know it's dreadful. Of course I would rather have him have two arms and be safe—but if it's a choice between two arms and still having his life in danger, or one arm and home, I'll pick one arm and home."

"At least you have that option," Polly sighed. She kissed Davie, who was a strong, happy baby with his father's brown hair and eyes, and his mother's heart-shaped face. At seven months, he was crawling and babbling and into everything, and the apple of his mother's eye. "Oh Meg—every time I hear about someone coming through safely, a small part of me is angry, because why couldn't it be Pierre? And when I hear about someone getting killed, a tiny part of me is almost _glad_, because at least I'm not the only one suffering. I love Davie—and I wouldn't trade him for anything—but oh, if I could just have him _and_ Pierre." She bit her lip. "I'm a terrible person, I know."

Meg smiled sympathetically. "You're human, Polly. Is that such a crime?" She did wonder, though, what would happen to Polly when Elliot returned. Polly still loved Pierre, and Elliot distant was a comfortable figure, Davie's father. Elliot present, Davie's father _and_ Polly's husband, would be a different matter.

"Mail call," Shirley interrupted the girls as they sat in Green Gables' sewing room, working on clothes to send to the war orphans in Britain. He tossed two letters into Meg's lap. She studied the handwriting.

"This one's from Will—thank goodness he's right-handed; he won't have to re-learn how to write. And this is from—oh Polly, Papa, it's from Johnny!" They hadn't heard a word from him since Blythe's death.

"Open that one first and read it," Polly asked. "Please? I want to know how he is."

Meg opened it and scanned it swiftly first, just to make sure there wasn't anything in it that Johnny wouldn't want her to share. She gave a cry. "Oh, listen to this! 'Dear Meg, you'll be happy to know that yours is the second letter I'm writing today—the first one was to Mother and Father and Dee. Yes, I've finally swallowed my pride and released the past.

"'I was at the Battle of Ortona, too, and in the middle of the fighting and dying and madness, when everyone was separated from his own unit and we were just fighting for our lives, I heard a voice say "Johnny?" and Meg, it was Blythe. I couldn't even speak at first, but then he hugged me, the first time I ever remember him voluntarily hugging me in my life, and said "Brother, am I glad to see you!" Meg, he never had said anything like that to me, ever, and I couldn't even say anything back, but then there wasn't time because the fighting was going on all around us and we were needed, so we just stood shoulder to shoulder and pressed forward, protecting each other's backs. For the first time I really felt like Blythe was my brother—the way I always felt about Matt.

"'Then a bullet took him, right in the stomach. He didn't cry out or anything, just crumpled to the ground in a little heap. For a second I didn't even know what had happened, but then I looked down and saw the red staining his uniform. I went down to my knees beside him and he gripped my hand. "Johnny?" he asked. "I'm here, Blythe," I told him. "I'm dying, aren't I?" he asked.

"'His face was already grey, and I've seen enough death this war to know the truth. "Yes," I said. "Tell Mum—and Dad—and Dee—that I love them," he gasped. "And Johnny—I love you too. I always have. I'm sorry—I wasn't a better—brother."

"'I told him that I loved him, too—and I realized that it was true, I wasn't just saying it to ease his last moments. Underneath all the pain and anger I've carried for so many years, I've always loved them, every one.

"'And then he died, clutching my hand.

"'I don't remember much after that. I know we won the battle—they tell me I fought like a demon—but all I can see is Blythe's face smiling at me when I try to think back. It's taken me a while to come to grips with the fact that I found my brother just in time to lose him again, but I am determined not to make the same mistake with the rest of my family. So I wrote to them today, telling them about Blythe, how his last thoughts were of them, and I asked them to forgive me all the pain I've caused them over the years.

"'And I want you to know that I love you, Meg, and Matt and Uncle Shirley and all the rest. Somehow, all the bitterness I held against everyone is gone, died when Blythe died. I plan to survive this war, but if I don't, I want you all to know how much I care.' And it's simply signed, 'Johnny.'"

Meg set the letter down and only then realized that she had tears pouring down her cheeks. Polly was sobbing quietly over the little trousers she was sewing, her tears dripping onto Davie's head, and even Shirley's brown eyes were moist.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat. "Well."

* * *

Will's letter was much more cheerful.

_Dear Meg, I don't know if your aunt told you, but apparently she and Uncle Kip worked it out that I am to come to Tanglewood to fully recover from losing my arm. Uncle Kip is back at school now, and can't take care of me like the docs say I need, and they don't think the city air of Toronto is the best for me anyway. He mentioned his dilemma to your grandmother while he was at Ingleside, and she told your aunt, and your aunt offered to let me stay with them, now that their war refugee what's-her-name has gone back to Britain with her wee one._

_Overseas travel is dangerous these days (what isn't?), but if all goes well you may expect to see me in March. Will you mind having me as a near neighbor for the next several months?_

_Thanks again, a hundred times over, for your letters while I was in danger. The nurses read them aloud to me when I was delirious with fever, and I'm convinced they are what helped pull me through—but don't tell the doctors I said that! They like to think it's all due to their skills. Grandmother Thornton, of course, credits it to the Thornton will. Your Uncle Bruce says it simply wasn't God's time for me yet, and I suppose his is the best explanation of all._

_See you soon (!),_

_Will._

"Oh," said Meg, folding the letter up with shining eyes. "Oh, he's coming _here_."

And she didn't even ask herself why that thought gave her such radiant joy.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **I almost had myself in tears writing Johnny's letter. I just wanted to share that with you all. That's all._


	42. Dreams

Polly looked scandalized when Meg and Shirley arrived at Tanglewood that March afternoon.

"Meg! You aren't even dressed up! You—you're wearing trousers, for heaven's sake!"

Meg went off into a gale of giggles. "Oh Polly, you sound just like old Mrs. Sloane. She informed me yesterday at the post office that 'women in trousers are an abdomen before God.' I _think_ she meant 'abomination,' but I didn't stop to ask."

"You know I don't mean that, but honestly, aren't you going to dress up at all for Will?"

Meg raised one slim shoulder. "Why should I? Will knows and likes me just as I am, without any frills or fuss. Besides," she added practically, "I was helping Papa with the fencing this morning, and that's not a job one should wear a skirt for. The last time I tried it, I ended up tearing an enormous gap, right in its front, and I had to turn it into cleaning rags."

Shirley hid a smile. He was old-fashioned enough to prefer women in skirts, but he had to confess that he thought Meg looked positively adorable in her wool trousers and oxford shirt.

"When is Uncle Patrick supposed to be back from the station?" Meg asked, adroitly changing the subject.

"Any time," Auntie Di said. "I have tea ready in the sitting room, and a plate of biscuits. I do hope Will isn't too tired from the journey."

"Don't worry about us, Di, we'll just stay long enough to greet Will and then let him rest," Shirley promised.

"They're here!" Avery shrieked from her position at the front window.

They all piled to the door to see Uncle Patrick helping a gaunt young man out of the vehicle. Meg caught her breath. _That_ was Will? That weak, thin, weary-looking man with the empty sleeve dangling at his left side like an obscene reminder of what used to be? For a moment Meg thought she might cry.

Then Will saw them all huddled at the door, and his old familiar grin lit up his face. His blue eyes may have been sunken in a bit, but they still twinkled, and the new lines in his face left by war were obscured by the laugh lines that had always been there. Broken, weary, injured, he was still Will.

"Welcome, my dear boy!" Auntie Di cried, rushing past in a swirl of skirts. She hugged Will, but very cautiously, as though he might break. He wrapped his good arm around her.

"It's good to be here," he said heartily. Flanked by Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick, he came the rest of the way into the house. His eyes, flickering over the entire group, settled for an instant on Meg.

Suddenly, Meg found it hard to breathe. Her heart pounded, and she almost thought she was going to faint. Then Will's gaze moved on, and her lungs opened up again. She dropped to the back of the group, wondering what on earth was wrong with her.

Shirley saw the red flush covering his daughter's face, and his heart sank. He knew that look—knew what it meant, even if Meg herself didn't know. He prayed, selfishly, that it would be a long, long time before she _did_ realize what it meant.

Will refused to let any of them leave. After months in a military hospital, surrounded by nurses' hushed voices and the moans of other injured men, a little familial chaos was more than welcome. At that, Avery climbed comfortable into his lap, and Daniel and Selwyn both settled at his feet. Only Roger stayed aloof, but even he slowly thawed to Will's cheeky smile.

"It's good to be home," Will sighed. He turned an inquisitive eye to Auntie Di. "I hope you don't mind that I call this home? It certainly feels more like a home than Toronto ever did."

Auntie Di rested her hand fondly on his stubbly head. "Nothing could make me happier than to have you think of Tanglewood as your home."

* * *

Those first couple of weeks, Will did very little but eat and sleep. Polly said with exasperation that it was like having another newborn in the house—although she did admit that at least Will didn't scream at the top of his lungs to let them know when he was hungry or tired.

"And fewer diapers," Meg laughed.

Finally though, Auntie Di declared him recovered enough to start to do a _few_ things.

"Not too much, though," she fussed, the first day he went for a walk with Meg and Polly. Will smiled affectionately at her.

"You are a jewel, Mrs. Di, and I promise not to undo your hard work, but if I don't get out for a short walk, I'm going to turn into a pale, shriveled mushroom."

Polly only walked a short way with them before starting to fret about Davie.

"Oh, what if he gets hungry while I'm gone? Doc Martin said he might be having another growth spurt soon. Poor little baby, just imagine him crying and crying for hunger while I'm out here having fun …"

"Polly," Meg said patiently. "If you're that worried, just go back to him. Will and I will be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"_Go_," Will and Meg said in unison.

Watching her fleeing figure heading back toward Tanglewood, Will grinned wryly at Meg. "That was her having fun?"

Meg laughed, but couldn't think of anything to say. She felt oddly shy around Will these days; nothing like the comfortable friendship that had formed from their letters. She didn't know what it was, whether it was the missing arm, just having him here in person, or something else entirely.

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Will drew in a long, satisfied breath.

"Ahhhh," he said. "Now that's something like."

"What is?"

"The cold—the freshness—the silence." He looked sideways at her. "A companion by my side who's _not_ a soldier."

"Decidedly not that," Meg murmured.

"I dreamed about this, in Africa." He laughed shortly. "And then, in Italy, I dreamed about being back in Africa, under the burning sky." He smiled lopsidedly. "And then in the hospital, I dreamed about being anywhere but there."

"A lot of dreaming," Meg said inadequately.

"Dreams were the only thing that kept me going."

"I wish I could understand how bad it was," Meg said.

"No you don't," Will said vehemently. "I wish _nobody_ could understand how bad it was." He softened his tone. "That was another dream—that we could somehow win this thing so that nobody else would ever have to know what war is like."

Once again, Meg found herself without words.

"Meg," Will said after a bit longer, his breath coming unevenly.

"Have we walked too far?" Meg asked in quick concern. "Oh, Auntie Di will never forgive me if I've let you overdo it your very first day out!"

"No—I'm fine. Meg, I had another dream out there in Africa, one that helped me more than anything else. I told myself—I promised that I would wait to bring this up, but I'm afraid I've lost the art of patience.

"I love you, Meg."

Meg stopped short and gaped at him. He looked so dreadfully in earnest, his blue eyes serious for once, his bush coat hanging loosely around his thin frame. She stared, and her world slowly titled and turned and tumbled around her.

"I love you," he repeated. "And—and I keep dreaming that someday you'll love me too, and we can have a life together, to do our part to fight evil with good. Is there any chance of that happening, Meg?"

"I need to sit down," Meg said abruptly. Will sprang to her side to guide her to a fallen log by the side of the road. Meg sank down onto it and buried her face in her hands. She couldn't think, couldn't feel, couldn't _anything_.

When the whirling sensation in her head finally subsided, she removed her hands to find Will looking sheepish.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess I sort of sprang that on you without warning, didn't I? you don't have to answer—forget I said anything at all."

He started to rise. Meg put out a hand to detain him.

"Will, wait."

He sat back down.

Meg paused a moment to collect her thoughts. She knew what she had to say, but she needed to make sure it was clear—she didn't want to hurt this dear, dear man.

"Will—when I was with Hawk, I tried so hard to convince myself that I loved him, because he loved me and I wanted to make him happy. Matt told me that's one of my biggest flaws—I'm too eager to make people happy, without thinking of the long-term consequences.

"It would be very, very easy for me to tell you that I love you, because I do care for you very much, and right now I would say almost anything to take away that haunted look in your eyes. But I don't know that I do love you, and I don't want to say it unless I'm sure, because if I said it and then later found it wasn't true, it would just cause you more pain in the long run.

"So what I can tell you is that you are very dear to me, Will Ashton, and if you are willing to wait for me to figure out how I feel, someday, hopefully soon, I will be able to tell you whether or not your dream can become reality."

Will gripped her hand tightly with his one remaining. "I would wait a hundred years for you, Meg Blythe, if at the end I had even a hope of winning your heart." Then he grinned. "But I don't mind confessing that I wouldn't complain if it was less."

Meg laughed and let him pull her to her feet.

"And now," she said, "We really should get back to Tanglewood, or Auntie Di will come after us with bloodhounds."

Walking back, Meg found that the awkwardness she'd felt before, which she would have thought increased with Will's declaration of love, had actually vanished. They laughed and joked like the old friends they were, with no trace of stiffness between them whatsoever.

Avery came running out the door to meet them as soon as they reached Tanglewood.

"You'll never guess!" she shrieked.

"What is it, Moppet?" Will asked, ruffling her curls.

"Mummy Di's had a telegram from Peter—he says to make up the guest room because Jocelyn is coming here!"

"She's coming here?" Meg asked in delight. At last she would have a chance to meet the woman who had captured her cousin's heart! "Why?"

"Both she and Jane are coming home," Auntie Di supplemented, following Avery out. "Jane, of course, is going back to her parents, who have only now that she's returning decided to forgive her for leaving in the first place, and are still stiff about her marriage to Bran." Her eyes snapped, and Meg decided _not_ to ask how she knew all this.

"But why?" she repeated. "Just because they are married now?"

"No," Auntie Di said proudly. "Because in approximately eight months—late November or early December—Davie will have two little cousins joining the family!"


	43. Echo Lodge

Jocelyn and Jane arrived early April 1944, on a day when no one was expecting them. Meg, Shirley, Uncle Patrick and the boys were teaching Will all about sugaring; Polly, Avery, and Auntie Di were preparing dinner inside. Will was proving surprisingly adept at doing things with only one arm, and half the time the rest of them forgot he was missing the other. He never forgot, though; sometimes at night he'd wake up and ask himself how he was going to get through the rest of his life—crippled.

He enjoyed the sugaring, and Meg found great pleasure in teaching it to him. She had helped her father, brother, and cousins with this process for as long as she could remember. She never ceased to think of the old wooden sugarhouse as a magical fairyland castle, where ordinary sap entered, and sweet, pure maple syrup exited.

In these days of rationing the syrup was more valuable than ever, replacing sugar in most of their cooking recipes. Meg felt like a pioneer, like _Ma Ingalls_ from those Yankee books Rose loved so much, using maple syrup and sugar for all her everyday needs and saving the store-bought white sugar for the most special occasions.

The group tramped into Tanglewood, the aroma of hot syrup hanging about their shoulders like a mantel, and there they were: two young women sitting in the kitchen with Polly and Auntie Di, helping to prepare food.

Jane hadn't changed a bit. She was just as strong and sturdy, with her friendly grin and her splendid russet hair. Avery was perched in her lap while Jane expertly peeled potatoes around her, chattering away to her new favorite "sister."

Jocelyn, at first, was a disappointment. After all of Peter's letters, Meg had expected a great beauty. Instead, she saw a slim, boyish figure with a piquant face—pleasant-looking, certainly, but no beauty. She looked up from where she was rolling out pastry dough and her hazel eyes met Meg's. She smiled warmly.

"The rest of our family, I presume?"

It was the same rich, deep voice they had heard over the telephone at New Year's, and it broke the spell of amazement that had gripped them all when they walked into the kitchen.

Jane twisted around in her chair, set Avery down, and sprang up to hug them all.

"We're here!" she exclaimed. "And oh, it's good to see your faces again! I haven't even had time to go home yet—Joss and I just arrived a half hour ago and I wanted to see her settled first—but seeing you all is almost as good as being home!"

"Why didn't you girls call us, let us know you were coming?" Uncle Patrick asked. "We could have come gotten you from the station."

"Oh that was my fault," Jocelyn admitted readily. "After so much traveling—train and boat and train again—I wanted to walk. Plus I wanted to see something of this land my husband calls home."

"I was happy to walk, too," Jane said, exchanging a quick smile with her sister-in-law. "It's been a long time since I've traveled these red roads."

"They surprised us when we were starting dinner preparations," Auntie Di said. "And then they insisted on helping. I tried to get them to rest a bit first, but …"

"I'm afraid we're both quite stubborn," Jocelyn said.

Meg's disappointment in Peter's wife vanished at once. She may not have been a beauty, but she was of Joseph's race, and that was enough.

"I do have to get home, though," Jane said. A wistful look crept in her eyes. "How I've missed dear old Lantern Hill! I can't think that Bran and I will ever have a home I love as much as that one."

"You will," Auntie Di said with a smile. "It's not the house so much as those who live in it. Are you sure you won't stay to eat, at least?"

Jane shook her head and caught up her hat, kissing Avery's cheek. "Thank you, Auntie—_Mother_ Di, but I can't wait any longer. Besides, Mother and Dad are still cross with me for getting married at all; they'll be terribly upset if they find out I came home and was here for any length of time before seeing them." Her mouth curved in her old wide smile. "I will, however, accept the loan of a bicycle, if anyone were to offer. It's a long walk to Lantern Hill."

"I'll drive you," Uncle Patrick offered at once, but Jane shook her head.

"With gas rationing the way it is? Nonsense! A bicycle will do me just fine. Is Bran's still around? I used to ride that quite often, back before …"

Bran's bicycle was indeed in the barn, and with a cheerful wave, Jane was off, leaving them alone with Jocelyn.

"We should leave you to get acquainted," Shirley said, motioning a reluctant Meg toward the door.

"Oh please, don't leave on my account!" Jocelyn said. "I want to get to know all my family."

"Yes, stay," Auntie Di said. "Goodness knows, Shirley, we all share in everything anyway."

He acquiesced, and very soon they were all sitting at a laden table. Meg was next to Will and across from Jocelyn, who seemed perfectly at ease with all these strange people. She answered questions about the trip, about life in England right now, about turning her ancestral house into a convalescent home, all without the slightest appearance of embarrassment.

By the end of dinner, Meg decided that Jocelyn was going to fit in just fine.

* * *

"Tell me, Meg," Jocelyn began one day in early May. The two girls were working in Green Gables' Victory Garden (though, since it had been there ever since Marilla Cuthbert's time, Meg thought it a bit silly to suddenly give it a new name and call it patriotic). Polly fussed over Jocelyn doing such things as kneeling and squatting in her condition, but the older girl just laughed.

"From what I understand, there will be a good deal of kneeling and squatting involved in the birthing part of this pregnancy," she said with a roguish wink at Meg. "I'd best get in practice for it now."

And Polly blushed like a Victorian maiden of the '90s.

"Tell me," Jocelyn continued. "Is there anything special between you and Will? I know it's terribly impertinent in me to ask, and I really have no excuse but blatant curiosity. I'm dreadfully nosy, you know."

Meg laughed comfortably. "I don't mind. The answer is—yes and no. There _could_ be—he'd like there to be—but I want to be absolutely sure of myself before committing to anything." And she explained about Hawk.

"I think you're wise," Jocelyn said, resting back on her heels and brushing a strand of dark hair away from her mouth. "When I committed to marrying Freddie, we both knew we didn't love each other. But it seemed fine to us, because we didn't love anyone else, either. Then I met Peter … well, once you really love someone, you simply aren't willing to settle for anything less. It's best to know your own heart lest you make another mistake. And if your Will truly loves you, he'll be willing to wait."

"He says he is," Meg said, blushing. It was still difficult for her to think about Will—loving her. Mostly she thought of him as a jolly friend who wanted to be her friend for the rest of their lives. Love, though, was still a frightening concept.

"Have you any idea which way your heart will turn?" Jocelyn now asked.

"I don't know," Meg answered. "I used to think that I'd never want to leave Papa, and Green Gables. Then I went to school, and met Hawk, and so much has happened … if I truly loved someone, the way you love Peter, I could leave, I think. But I'd have to really, really love him. And I just don't know if Will is that person."

"What do you know about Will?"

"I know that he's my friend—very nearly my dearest friend, now," Meg said. "Oh, not dearer than Matt or Peter, of course, but … well, Peter has you now, and Matt's my _twin_, and Will is just … just Will."

Jocelyn smiled. "Well, I wouldn't dream of telling you what to do with your life, my new cousin, but if you ask me, it sounds as though you do love Will and just don't realize it. Not that my opinion counts for anything, naturally. It's your life."

And Meg laughed, because even after knowing Jocelyn a short while she knew that the other girl had a very good opinion of herself. Jocelyn knew it too—one of her charms was her honesty about her character—and so she laughed as well.

"It's so beautifully peaceful here," she mused a little while later. "No worries about bombs, no Sisters barking orders … you don't even have a radio here at Green Gables!"

"No, we leave that to Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick," Meg said. "If anything important happens with the war, someone will come tell us. Papa says it's not healthy to dwell so much on war news—it affects us enough as it is, without wallowing in it."

"Your father is very sensible," Jocelyn said. "I'm glad I will be giving birth to my baby in such a restful environment. Peter and I had planned to settle in England after the war is over, but who knows? Perhaps we should stay here instead, raise our family in an atmosphere of hope instead of depression. Goodness knows England was depressed enough after the first war; I can't imagine what it will be like after this one. I don't like to be a coward—part of me feels it is my duty to stay and help rebuild—but maybe we could at least split our time between here and there, so that our children can know both worlds."

Meg looked thoughtfully at her. "Are you up for a bit of a walk?" she asked.

Jocelyn looked surprised. "Certainly. Now? What about the garden?"

"It can wait." Meg got to her feet and brushed off her hands. "Come with me."

* * *

"What is this place?" Jocelyn breathed a short while later. She gazed delightedly at the little red sandstone house, all covered over with ivy, its dormer windows winking cheerfully at them. Meg grinned mischievously.

"You haven't even heard the best part yet."

"Heard?" Jocelyn started to ask, when she was startled by Meg throwing her head back and letting out a most un-ladylike whoop.

Dozens of whoops answered her back, as if troops of pixie children heard and answered her call.

"Echoes!" Jocelyn cried delightedly.

"Echo … echo … echo …" her voice rang 'round the hills.

"This," Meg said proudly, "Is Echo Lodge. My great-grandmother lived here before she married my great-grandfather. It belongs to my grandfather now, but he and Grandmamma never come to the Island, and someday it will be mine and Matt's. Matt suggested, before he left, that we ask Grandfather if he would pass it to you and Peter, instead. Matt will inherit Green Gables, and I'll either live there with him or … or I'll marry Will, I suppose, and move wherever he goes."

"Meg darling," Jocelyn said in a hushed voice. "You don't mean it. You would _give_ us this … this lovely, lovely place?"

"It should be loved," Meg said simply. "And Peter's loved it since the first time we found it, almost ten years ago now. All I ask is that you fill it with laughter again."

Jocelyn threw off all her British reserve and flung her arms around Meg. "You are the dearest girl ever!" She patted her belly. "Do you hear that, Peter Junior? Your Aunt Meg has given us a home, a place all our own, a place to live when we're not in England. Tell her thank-you, Junior."

"You're so sure it's a boy?" Meg asked, dimpling.

"Jocelyn Junior just sounds ridiculous," Jocelyn laughed.

The girls spent the rest of the afternoon exploring. It had been years since Meg had visited the little house, and she'd almost forgotten how delightful it was. She couldn't regret giving it up, though. Knowing that her most beloved cousin and his family would be living there, filling the rooms with love, keeping the echoes company after all these long, lonely years, more than made up for any sacrifice.

She thought Great-Grandmother Lavender would approve.


	44. A Year of Hope

Summer started in a blazing glory of hope with the Allies' invasion of France, but they soon realized that the war was not going to be won in one or two spectacular battles, but rather a long, protracted struggle to eradicate the Nazis.

Will was as nervous as a cat on hot bricks during the fight for France. "I feel relieved that I'm out of it—then guilt for being relieved—then I miss my fellow soldiers—and I wish I could be there with them—then I remember losing my arm—and I'm relieved that I'm out of it, and so the whole process begins all over again," he confessed to Meg. "It's exhausting."

"I'm glad you're safe," Meg said emphatically. "I have enough people over there to worry about. I don't need you gone, too."

Rose wrote that Geoff had been one of the paratroopers landing in Normandy on D-Day. He'd taken a bullet in his leg, she wrote, and so she told him he couldn't be wounded anymore, and he had to come home soon. One wound was all he was allowed.

Walt was at Normandy, too, with the Canadian Infantry, and was also injured. It was just a slight wound, he wrote home—he'd lost his helmet in the scramble up the beach and a bullet creased his skull, knocking him out momentarily. The medics declared him fit, though, and he was back in the fighting already.

Uncle Ken came home after that. "I've seen too much," he said. "I never thought there could be anything worse than the last war—but there is, and I've seen it. I can't do anymore. Let the younger men take over."

Aunt Faith reported that Aunt Rilla flew into his arms like she was nineteen again when he disembarked the train. The Avonlea folk had considered going to meet him as well, but decided to give him a little time to recover first before they all descended on him.

Gil seemed to lead a charmed life—he was an ace, and had yet to be shot down once. Polly's Elliot, too, was continuing without a scratch. Matt, of course, was far away from the main action in the Pacific, but it was just as deadly there, he wrote Meg, even if it wasn't as impressive.

Meg started to allow herself to hope that they might all yet make it through the rest of this war—for the first time, she truly believed they were going to win it. It had continued for so long; she had started to believe that the world would be at war until the Last Trumpet.

* * *

September brought autumn once again to Avonlea, this time enlivened by Jocelyn and Jane's swelling stomachs. Little Davie was now over a year old, toddling around on two feet and saying "Mama" and "Will" quite plainly, though he refused to attempt anyone else's name. Meg kept putting off giving Will an answer about her heart, thinking life was just so comfortable the way they all were right now. He didn't push her at all, but sometimes Meg felt guilty about making him wait so long.

Still, the thought of examining her heart brought about faint feelings of panic whenever she dwelled too long on it, so she continued to endure the guilt.

Will couldn't do much to help with the harvest, but all three of Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick's boys pitched in to help this year. Last year Sel was still too young, and having that one extra pair of hands made all the difference.

"No Land Girls in Avonlea!" Joss laughed. "Too dull for a city girl, I suppose."

"Too small," Shirley corrected her. "Between boys younger than eighteen and men too old to fight, we have more than enough farm workers for our small community."

"Just as well," Joss said wisely. "Land Girls cause an awful lot of trouble wherever they go."

Jane was still at Lantern Hill—her parents usually moved back to Toronto in the fall for Lyssa's schooling, but Jane had persuaded them to stay on this year. She wanted her child to be Island-born, she said.

The bicycle was out of the question for her now, with her center of balance so changed, and she still refused to use the car for anything short of an emergency, so they didn't see as much of her, but she telephoned nearly every day to see how they all were doing. Polly took to putting Davie in his little wagon and walking halfway to Lantern Hill. Jane and Lyssa would walk the other half, and they would meet and have a picnic lunch and laugh and talk. Polly hadn't—exactly—taken to Jocelyn, but she loved Jane like a true sister already.

"It's not that I don't _like_ Jocelyn," she explained to Meg. "It's just … I can't feel comfortable around her."

Personally, Meg thought that Jocelyn intimidated Polly without even realizing it. She was so capable and vibrant and _alive_, and Polly (and most other women, in fact) faded slightly whenever Jocelyn was in the room.

"You're not bothered by her," Will said, when Meg mentioned this to him.

"No," Meg said thoughtfully, "but I'm used to living in other people's shadows. Rose was always the one people noticed at school, and even in the family I've always been one of the 'quiet ones.' Matt and Papa and Johnny and Uncle Bruce and me!" she finished, laughing. "It's a small enough number for our enormous family."

Will laughed with her. He could have said, but didn't, that _he_ didn't think anyone could overshadow her. When Meg was in the room, Will had eyes for no one else.

* * *

October brought with it a massive German surrender at Aachen, another major triumph in that year of large and small victories.

"That Mrs. Pye told me I ought to name my son Churchill Roosevelt Stalin Samuels," Jocelyn said in indignation. "And then that dreadful Mrs. Andrews said I should name him Aachen, to commemorate this surrender, but Mrs. Pye said that was a _Nazi_ name, and Emma Gillis said maybe I should name him Norman, since the Normandy landings are what started this all, and _I_ had all I could do to keep my mouth shut. Mother Di, dear, _why_ must I keep attending these Red Cross meetings?"

"Cheer up, daughter mine," Auntie Di laughed, ruffling Joss's smooth dark head as though she were Avery's age. "Maybe you'll have a girl."

"Nonsense," Joss said. "I know it's a boy—a mother can always _tell_."

Auntie Di said nothing, but her eyes twinkled wisely. She was thinking of the dozens of women who had made that very statement, only to be proven wrong when the baby finally came—including Faith, who had been so certain that Lily was going to be a boy that when Dr. Blythe announced "It's a girl," she hollered,

"Check again!"

Johnny took a slight injury in a small skirmish late in October—and was awarded the DC medal as a result.

_It's all nonsense,_ he wrote to Meg. _I didn't do anything differently here than I did anywhere else, but because I rescued an officer and took a bullet in the shoulder for it, I get a medal. Crazy._

Auntie Nan and Uncle Jerry were beside themselves with pride, though, and also with relief, as Johnny was being shipped off to Wales to recuperate. Meg got the impression from his letters that he protested the entire way. She felt a great deal of sympathy for his nurses.

Though Meg didn't know it, Will went to her father that month and told him about their conversation back in March.

"I know I should have spoken to you first, sir," he said in his straight-forward manner. "The truth is, I didn't even mean to tell her how I felt. It just sort of slipped out. And then I've been too nervous to confess to you that I love her ever since. A blind man could see how much Meg means to you, and I feel like a cad even asking to take her away."

Shirley was silent for a moment or two. His mind was ranging back to when Meg left for school, a shy girl of fourteen. He went further back, remembering her as an adorable ten-year-old, running through the fields, hand-in-hand with Matty. He remembered the day she was born, just a little brown bundle that her mother lived only long enough to kiss once.

For a heartbeat, he thought he couldn't give her up. He opened his mouth to tell Will no, he would never give his permission. Then he looked again in the young man's blue eyes, and saw something there that made him pause.

It was the same look Shirley had felt in his own eyes when he had asked Paul Irving for permission to someday marry Cecily. Paul and Rachel loved their daughter with all their heart, but Paul still had given Shirley his blessing. Could he do any less?

"If she loves you, you may have her," he said hoarsely, and later on that evening made a long-distance telephone call to his father-in-law, thanking him again for his sacrifice.

* * *

It was a cold, snowy November morning when Meg woke up to see a happy Polly beaming down at her.

"What are you doing here?" she gasped. "Is it—Joss's baby!"

"She's here," Polly said with dancing eyes. "She came last night—we didn't even have time to get the doctor."

"She?"

"Yes, it's a baby girl. Jocelyn is delighted, but says she'll never trust mother's intuition again. Hurry and get dressed! We want you to come meet your newest niece."

Meg dressed as quickly as she ever had in her life, and the two girls ran down the icy track to Tanglewood, where a happy mother and sweet baby girl awaited them in a back room.

"Isn't she darling?" Joss asked proudly. "I am so glad she's not a boy—now nobody will expect me to name her anything ridiculous."

"You look amazing, Joss," Meg said admiringly.

"Yes well, I think she was in a hurry to greet the world, because it only took five hours of labor before she was born. See Polly, I told you all that squatting in the garden would pay off in the end!"

"Have you called Jane yet?" Meg asked, cooing over the wee pink lady in Joss's arms. The two sisters-in-law had a mock competition going over who was going to give birth first.

"I just phoned down to Lantern Hill," Auntie Di said, entering the room. Laughter bubbled in her voice. "And, oh girls, Dr. Camlyn was just leaving, after delivering a healthy baby boy to Jane!"

"Oh!" Joss laughed. "Oh, heavens!"

"Well, that explains it," Polly said teasingly. "The stork got confused. Jane thought she was having a girl … the stork brought you her girl, and Jane your boy!"

And for the rest of their days, the "twin" cousins were jokingly accused of coming to the wrong family.

"What did she name him?" Meg asked.

"Lewis, after Bran's last name before we adopted him," Auntie Di said. "And Rhys, because it's Welsh and she thought that would please Bran."

"Lewis Rhys Samuels," Meg said, testing the name on her tongue. "It's a good, strong name."

"Bran a father," Auntie Di sighed. "I never thought I'd live to see the day."

"I never thought _he'd_ live to see the day," Polly commented dryly.

"Have you settled on a name for your girl-baby?" Meg asked Joss. "Is she Jocelyn Junior?"

"No," Joss smiled. "She's Evelyn, after my mother. I hope you don't mind, Mother Di, but you see, you're living and she's not, and so this is the only connection I can make to her."

"Of course I'm not upset, darling!" Auntie Di said. She kissed the baby's downy head. "Evelyn Samuels … it's a beautiful name.

"Evelyn _Reed_ Samuels," Joss elaborated. She stroked little Evelyn's face. "My darling Evie."

Watching her, Meg felt a pang. For the first time in her young life, she wanted to be a mother … to feel the thrill of naming your own child, and to cuddle it and nurture it.

Maybe, just maybe … maybe it was time to start thinking more seriously about Will. She wasn't a child anymore. She couldn't keep pretending this … whatever it was … didn't exist between them.

Was she truly ready to let herself love Will Ashton?


	45. Victory

The rest of that winter flew by in a breathless haze. One moment Lewis and Evie were born, the next they celebrated Christmas and New Year's, and the next it was spring, and the trees were blossoming and the grass was growing and the Nazis were still fighting with their last breath, though it was obvious to everyone they could not win.

"This is the worst," Meg said in a rare bout of complaining. "All the killing that's happening now is so pointless! We know—and they know—that we're going to win in the end, so why do we have to keep fighting? At least before it meant something."

"Mopping up," Shirley said, looking at her sharply. "It's not the worst, by a long shot, though, Meg. The worst part comes after all the papers have been signed and the fighting stops … and people have to try to rebuild the world from its ruins. It's not like you to complain, love."

"I know," Meg sighed. "I'm just so tired. Of everything. I want something wonderful to happen. For so long we've been living on crumbs of joy and flashes of hope. I'm ready for something big."

"Such as?"

Meg squirmed. "I don't know," she fibbed.

In truth, she did know. She knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to tell Will Ashton that she loved him—but she had no idea how. The thought of just blurting it out in the middle of a conversation made her feel like she'd swallowed a bucket of worms. She couldn't do that, not if she had to wait ten more years.

If only he would bring the matter up again! But he seemed determined to wait for her to take the next step—that inborn courtesy of his—and she didn't know how to do it.

Besides, there was Papa. Thinking about telling him she loved Will made her feel even worse than if she'd swallowed worms. How could she abandon him, and Green Gables? She'd once thought she would live happily there forever, that nothing would ever lure her away.

In truth, though, Will had. Slowly and steadily, so gradually that Meg hadn't even noticed it happening, he had crept into her heart and taken root, until she could no more imagine life without him than … well, she couldn't think of a good comparison. She simply couldn't imagine life without him _at all_.

Only it had taken her so long to realize it that now, over a year since he had first told her he loved her, she had no idea how to move on.

And what if he no longer loved her? What if he'd decided that since she was going to treat him as a friend, he'd move on?

Meg was tormenting herself with these matters day in and day out, and she couldn't even talk to anyone about it. Joss, Polly, and Jane were all busy with their little ones, Auntie Di had her hands full with all the people living in her house, and Matt was so far away. There was Papa—but Meg was deathly afraid of hurting him.

Fortunately for her, Shirley took matters into his own hands. The night before Meg's twentieth birthday, he sat down with her on Green Gables' front porch, where so many generations of family had sat before them. Couldn't Meg see Grandmother and Granddad arguing amicably over teaching methods in the corner? And there was Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, she with her lips pursed disapprovingly as he smoked his pipe peacefully. There too was Mrs. Rachel Lynde, officious and kind, showing Dora Keith how to make apple-leaf bedspreads. In another corner, Davy and Millie Keith's young ones squabbled over a toy. And there, if Meg squinted hard enough, were her own parents, looking much younger as they sat in silence and watched the stars.

Meg was so blessed to have lived almost twenty years in such a family, with such a rich heritage. She sat quietly and let the peace of the old ways settle into her soul, making it the perfect opportunity for Shirley to say,

"Meggie, love."

She looked up. He hadn't called her by that pet name in several years, not since she had decided she needed a name that belonged to a woman instead of a child. "What is it, Papa?"

"How much longer are you going to make Will wait for you? It's not fair to him, love, or to yourself."

Meg sputtered incoherently. Papa had spoken as calmly as though he were asking her what she wanted to do to celebrate her birthday. "Why—why—what do you mean?"

"You do love him, don't you?" he asked in his matter-of-fact fashion.

"Yes," Meg answered slowly, feeling the truth of it. "But how did you know?"

"I've been in love before myself, Meg. I know the signs. And," he admitted, "I've been watching for it, ever since he came and asked for permission to marry you this past fall."

"He _did_?"

"Yes," Shirley confirmed.

"And—what did you say?"

"I told him," with a little catch in his voice, "that if you loved him, he could marry you."

"Oh, Papa!" Meg almost thought she might cry.

"Now then," he soothed, coming over and cuddling her against him as if she were a little child again. "It's nothing to cry over."

"But Papa—I love you so much, and I hate to leave you …"

"I'm not exactly pushing you out the door," he said. "I don't particularly want you to go, either. But it's the way of life, Meg, and that's all there is to it. I wouldn't tie you down here, knowing that your heart was with Will."

Meg did cry then, just a little, over the changes she felt looming in her life. She had wanted something spectacular to happen … but now that it was approaching, she wasn't sure she was ready.

"Now," Shirley said after a few moments, once she had composed herself a bit. "When _are_ you going to tell Will?"

"As soon as I work up enough courage," Meg answered with an embarrassed laugh. "He hasn't said anything to me about it in so long, and now I don't know how to bring it up again!"

"Start with 'um, er,'" Shirley advised. "That alone will be enough to tell him something unusual is happening, and even if you stammer out the rest, he'll understand the gist of it."

Meg laughed. "Oh, Papa!"

* * *

The rest of the family seemed to have decided to conspire against them, though, for Meg and Will never had a moment alone for the rest of April. Just as soon as they might have a moment together, and Meg was thinking she might well try that 'um, er,' of Papa's, Davie would run in and want to wrestle with Will, or Joss would sit down and start talking, or Auntie Di and Polly would want Meg in the kitchen. An exasperated Meg started to think that it was a plot.

Then came the new of Hitler's suspected suicide.

"Impossible," Auntie Di declared at once. "That man would never kill himself."

"He was insane, you know," Uncle Patrick reminded her. "Insane to think he could win, but he kept fighting. Maybe the realization that he has already lost proved too much for him."

"It's a Nazi plot to raise our hopes, just to dash them down again," Auntie Di said. "I won't believe it."

But a week later, on May 7, when they heard that the Germans had surrendered, even Auntie Di had to believe.

Meg and Joss and Evie had spent the morning at Echo Lodge, opening it up and airing it out, washing windows and scrubbing floors. Joss, as much as she loved Auntie Di and Uncle Patrick, had decided that if Paul Irving permitted, she would like to move into Echo Lodge that summer. She was, she confessed to Meg, rather too fond of having her own way to be entirely comfortable in someone else's home for very long, and she wanted to welcome Peter home to a place of their own.

Meg wrote to Grandfather, and he wrote back at once saying Echo Lodge was hers to do with as she pleased—if she and Matt wanted Peter and Jocelyn to have it, he would start drawing up the papers that very day.

And so the girls started preparing the house for human habitation again.

They walked into Green Gables' yard to find everyone huddled around. Polly was sobbing into her hands, and Auntie Di had tears in her eyes. The men, instead of being in the fields, were talking soberly, and the children were milling about uncertainly.

"What is it—oh, what has happened?" Meg cried, dropping her bucket and mop as fear gripped her heart. Was it Peter, or Bran, or—no! Nothing could have happened to Matt; she would have felt it if it had.

Will came toward her, a strange light in his eyes. "It is _victory_, Meg," he said fiercely. "We've won—at last, at last, we've won!"

Meg stared at him. For a minute she couldn't comprehend his words. Won? Victory? Was such a thing even possible.

"Oh, great God," Joss gasped beside her, and suddenly everything fell into place.

Without thinking, without planning, without even considering the several pairs of staring eyes, Meg threw her arms around Will's neck and kissed him full on the mouth.

He, though shocked at first, wasted no time in wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her in return.

When they finally broke apart, Meg was as dizzy as she had been the day he told her he loved her. Will smiled down into her eyes.

"I take it that's your answer for me, then?"

"Yes," Meg said. "I love you, Will—I love you."

"And I love you, Meg Blythe."

He kissed her again.

"Well," said Auntie Di, recovering from her stunned surprise. "I see we have another wedding to plan."

"Yes," Shirley smiled. "I think we do."

* * *

_**The End**_


End file.
